Eyes of the Jackal
by Zeech
Summary: The kiss that saved Raoul and Christine never took place. Enraged, heart broken, driven to madness, Erik has thrown Christine aside and taken Raoul hostage. Slash, written in a series of vignettes and drabbles. Finished work.
1. 1

**Title: Eyes of the Jackal**

**Author: **Zeech  
**Pairing: **Erik/Raoul  
**Phantom Version:** a combination of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical/film, elements of Susan Kay's Phantom, and last but most certainly not least, all characters belong to Gaston Leroux.  
**Rating:** R, for some dark material, and sexuality.

_**The First Day**_

Raoul cannot see, but he knows he is going to die. The rope that binds him to the iron gate also clutches at his neck, scratching, pulling like demon fingers coaxing the surrender of death. His vision has left him, but he can still hear. He hears her screams echo about the cave, and they spin in a cycle that ever repeats itself: a scream of fear, a sob for mercy, a yell of anger, a sob, a scream. As he is weakened he still struggles against the rope, knowing it will only kill him faster. He is a coward in that, only wishing to stop the sound of her voice in his head.

His only hope lies in whether or not Erik will keep his word, that killing the Vicomte will assure Christine her freedom. What he cannot see, and only hears, is Erik physically carrying the shaking girl around the gate, into the outer sanctum of his hideout so she may not lead a mob back to him. Her bare legs thrash in the water, and the skirts of her bridal gown weigh heavily about them, wet and dragging behind her. She screams, and cries, and tries to claw at him, but Erik is stronger than he seems. He holds her with her back to him, an arm across her chest and her waist. She will not escape until he frees her.

There is no kindness in his face, no signs of humanity or intentions of mercy. Erik can hear the people marching for their justice, and he throws her into the knee deep water, letting the white gown drink the stale water, and wash over Christine like a curse. She stares up at him, horrified, terrified, tear-streaked and betrayed.

"I hate you," she breathes, shudders, repulses. "I hate you, foul, wretched creature of darkness, I hate you!" She reaches up to claw at him, her nails scrabbling the damp flesh beneath his white undershirt, drawing blood. He seizes her wrists, effortlessly. "You are mad!" she desperately rages, sobs. "You ask for pity, but you are mad! Evil, wretched creature!"

Erik returns the stare and is exhausted. He knows that he is mad, he has known for sometime. He squeezes her wrists until she cries hard and sobs, and the little bones all crunch together in unholy chorus. She hates him. She might have loved him, but she hates him now, and hate he can accept. Hate has another face, and that is love, and though he will never see it from his beloved, hate he can accept. Erik releases her, and watches her mewl at his feet.

Somewhere in the dark, Raoul cries out in agony.

"Pray your farewells to the Vicomte," Erik says softly, and turns away. "He might even hear you."


	2. 2

**2**

Voices beat off the walls of the cavern, and Raoul awakens to a world he had not planned on seeing again. Chains still weigh his body down, but his throat is free to breathe, and water laps gentle waves upon his shivering frame. He gasps, and life reenters him as a force that reaches every corner of him. He can see now, a little, in the dim light, and there is not much to look at. Rocky walls and the glow of candles, voices howling outside. Pounding. Desperation.

Raoul struggles, and the water he sets in ripples hollowly around him. His arms burn, and are useless to aid him, so he arches against the metal rusted poles he is fettered to. He cannot escape, but he knows the voices are the only out. He cries out, loud, and it would echo as a dying prayer throughout his prison walls.

"Here!" he screams, deep in his chest. "I'm here!" Through the raucous cries outside the little dungeon, he picks up the low murmur of a chuckle. It is Erik, unmasked, and perched like a vulture at the rocky bank.

"They are coming," he says, and tilts his head to study Raoul thoughtfully. "I have sealed this place off. Pray they cannot come through, your life depends on it."

Raoul shudders, in cold and fear. His wet hair clings to his sweat-slicked face, and he regards Erik irrationally. "You are mad – you said you would kill me!" It occurs to him that what he has just spat at his captor was no more than a pained, hoarse whisper. As his screams were. The rope has bruised his throat, and he chokes the price of speech.

Erik watches him, and raises a brow. "Madness, dear one? Always."


	3. 3

**3**

How many days have passed since Erik's assault? Raoul cannot know, but he is cold. He shivers, violently, and listens as Erik batters away at his organ. Music shakes the hollowed cavern, echoing in vibrations that shatter the inside of his chest, and rattle his lungs. Raoul's chin grazes his chest, and distant ache eats away at the arc of his neck, and Erik must think he has lost consciousness.

Perhaps it will last forever, this pain.


	4. 4

**4**

Five days, and Raoul cannot distinguish between his need to escape, and his longing for death. His throat burns with the air he has been sucking in, and it is still bruised with a thick purple ring that goes all the way around his neck. His hair is dirty, and limp, and for two whole days he has not seen Erik. It seems impossible, that, because the cavern they are condemned to is so small, and there should be no room to hide.

He knows Erik is not hiding, he is grieving. His pounding away at the organ, angry, sorrowful notes drowning out his heavy, heaving, panting sobs. Perhaps on anyone else, they would be pitiful, but the man in the other cave is a chained monster, and his tears are more like the roars of a wounded lion. If he thinks Raoul cannot hear him then he is truly mad. Or perhaps he does know, and Raoul is of no more worth to him than the rats that gather in the winding catacombs of his dungeons.

Raoul moans, weakly, and strains against his chains. They chafe at his moist flesh, and he is left to listen to the howls of a new Lucifer in a deep, private Hell.


	5. 5

**A/N: **Yes, I know, I'm mean to Raoul. I can't help it, he's so pretty. I suppose I could blame that on too much Sugar Coma and Courtney Love. I love the guy, I really do, but I don't know if I could ever really write a fic with him that was not bittersweet, bitter, or just plain morbid. Maybe one day it'll come to me. Thanks for reading, gals and pals.

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**5**

Seven days, Raoul is drifting in a sea of hunger. His thirst has only been quenched by the water around him, and it leaves the inside of his mouth sticky and stale after long endless hours of sleep. He wonders if Erik even remembers he has a captive. Of course he does. In seven days, the monster should have neatly discarded his scales and replaced them with the fine material of black silk, but he has not. The mask is forgotten, somewhere amidst his drawings and mixtures of paint. His art is forgotten as well. Every now and then he steps out to regard Raoul quietly, and the young man only stares at him from beneath pale brows, eyes swollen and laced with red veins from exhaustion and hunger.

This time, however, Erik approaches him. He still wears only dark brown trousers, cotton, and his neatly laced up undershirt, so that when he lowers himself to sit on the bank he does not mind when cool water soaks them to mid-thigh. What Raoul can see does not look so wonderful in the Phantom. He, too, looks as if he has deprived himself of food and sleep, and his hair hangs in greasy pieces about his disfigured face.

With strong, thin hands he grips Raoul beneath the arms and pulls him over in the water to rest by his legs. The chains stir in the water, and Raoul's head falls limply on Erik's knee. His eyes close, and he breathes shallow, trying to pull his head up and spare some dignity. The heat from between the other man's legs is a sick, eerie comfort, and Raoul does not pull back, but he moves his head off Erik's knee. His brow tips forward, helplessly, back onto the bony curve.

"You are freezing," Erik says, unsatisfied, and runs fingers through the Vicomte's hair. He brings the chiseled face up to look at him. "Order your fine horses," his words are grumbled, and he drops Raoul back to fall on his leg. "Go on, Vicomte."

"You said you would kill me," Raoul whispers, hollow. "Kill me, Phantom."

"You mean release you."

"Send me to Heaven or Hell, I don't care," Raoul insists, and the chains gently pull at him from behind. "Kill me." A lonely death, in a hole in the ground. Erik seems unsatisfied, still, with his prey, and he thrusts both his hands into his own hair, clenching his teeth and giving a little moan. Erik rocks forward, once, twice, and finally he peels Raoul off of him. The boy goes to drift in the water.

"You have a mother," Erik says, raggedly, leaning to try and look Raoul in the face. Raoul is hanging in his chains, lips parted. He nods, slowly, but does not quite understand where Erik is taking this. "What is she like?"

Raoul realizes he cannot remember the image of his mother's face. It is too cold.


	6. 6

**6**

It has been six hours since he was liberated from the lake, the chains removed, and his wet clothing replaced with a new pair of trousers. Not because Erik wanted his comfort, but because he refused to let his sheets soak with lake water. His arms are wrenched behind his body, and his face is pressed into the bed uncomfortably. By now he has surrendered to despair, and his stomach snarls and twists with hunger. He is sickened with it, but at least the blanket is partially covering his bare, shivering back. There is warmth there.

The voices have long stopped, even with the song of the organ calling out to anyone who will listen. Raoul realizes that he is alone, even with Erik, because Erik does not want him, or care that he is there. He was once a valuable hostage, now he is something Erik is waiting to die. Raoul knows this, and he groggily blinks against the sheets, tears stinging his eyes. It has been so long since he has missed his father, and mother.

The music ceases, and Erik sits by the organ, thoughtful. He turns, slightly, and Raoul hears his voice quiet among the echoes of the notes. "They have given you up," he says.


	7. 7

**7**

Erik does not seem to sleep, or if he does at all he does so in secrecy. In those dark, long hours Raoul has tried escaping, but the Phantom has fixed a long chain across his back that goes from one end of the bed to the other, and does not allow him to move up. Raoul must always lie face down, and only listen to see if the monster has stirred. Days go by, perhaps another half week has passed, and Erik sometimes lies down beside him.

He cannot see the other man, but he feels the weight upon the bed beside him, and the sound of Erik's voice chills him over and over. He says things. Horrible things, horrible allusions to a horrible life. He speaks of a mother who would sooner kiss a dog than willfully look on the face of her own son. Raoul sometimes thinks he can hear tears in those lonely croaks and confessions, but all his pity has already been taken by his own misery.


	8. 8

**8**

"Trinket," Erik murmurs as he sits beside Raoul on the bed. He has a glass of clean water in his hand, and he slips an arm beneath the chain, lifting it enough to let Raoul move. "How she loved your worthless hide."

Raoul is allowed only a few precious sips at first, and it spills over his dry lips and down his chin. Erik takes the glass back, annoyed with the water that now dampens his sheets. He is wearing his black mask now, and Raoul can only see his lips below the piece. They are parted, in concentration. He is concentrating on Raoul. Deciding.


	9. 9

**Author's Note**: To answer the question, Erik is "_physically carrying the shaking girl around the gate, into the outer sanctum of his hideout so she may not lead a mob back to him_". She was cast out of the hideout, and is trying to find it again but she can't. Erik is clever and has hidden all the exits. Use your imagination. :)

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**9**

Two weeks, and it seems the hunger and the cold can no longer be sustained by what was once Raoul's healthy body. His belly concaves to his spine, and the muscles of his torso are declining to fine lines instead of healthy, thick cords. His trousers hang off his hips, his legs. His eyes roll up to their highest point, bulging and misplaced in their sockets as they follow Erik's slow movements. He paces. Back and forth, back and forth.

Raoul moves, ever so slightly, and it catches Erik's attention. The dark figure pauses, and he crouches beside the bed, watching Raoul's face as the boy feebly struggles against his chains. Shadows catch the crevices of deformed flesh that make up half of the Phantom's face. Muscles push through the skin stretched across Raoul's back and shoulders as he arches up, gritting his teeth. He collapses, again.

"Let me go," he breathes, and Erik laughs, cruel and mirthless. Raoul burns with sweat, and he lifts his head. "Let me go, or kill me, make a choice, you pathetic, wretched creature." Such familiar words tear at the inside of Erik. He becomes a shell, for just a moment, and with fury he shoves a palm into the back of Raoul's head. His face is pressed into the sheets as Erik unfastens the chain, and mounts him, a leg on either side of his visible ribs and both hands on the back of his pale head.

Raoul cannot breathe. Erik's weight crushes him.

"Wretched," he snarls. "Pathetic, creature," Erik pulls his neck up from the sheets, and whispers hotly in his ear, "She is not coming for you, do you understand me, boy? She cannot love. She cannot _love_!" Erik thrusts his face into the sheets again, and below him there is no resistance. No last breath, no shudder. Raoul lays perfectly still, and waits for his breath to leave his body. Raoul waits to die.

Without another word Erik stumbles off of the bed, away from Raoul. As if for the first time in a week, he seems to realize that without food, and water, Raoul will die. Perhaps he also realized that he left without refastening Raoul's chain. The young man rolls onto his back, for the first time in too long, and inhales deeply into deflated lungs. The air is stale, but sweet. It smells of water, and underground, but it is the mortal world. He has not died yet. Raoul covers his shaking, thin frame with the discarded velvet blankets. He feels recognized, and tries to hide.


	10. 10

**10**

Two days of no chain. One day of no bed. Raoul is allowed to sit at a table, though he is bound to it by the thighs. Erik has taken some of his rope, a thing of abundance in the lair, and lashed the Vicomte's legs onto the chair so he may not escape. He is allowed to sit. It means everything, now, but Raoul can only stare at the plate before him. Erik has made breakfast, as if they are only two companions sharing a meal, not a guard and his prisoner. Because of this, Raoul cannot bring himself to eat. His stomach repulses, and he turns away from it. Erik has already finished his, and as he refolds his napkin, as any gentleman, he narrows his eyes at the boy and comes to his feet.

"You complain of weakness," he says. "But you will not eat. Are you not going to eat?"

Raoul looks at him, pointedly. "Are you not going to kill me?" For his insolence, Erik hits Raoul across the cheek, and a handprint is left. Raoul still yelps like the pup he is when he is beaten.


	11. 11

**11**

Bruises take little under a week to fully disappear back into the flesh, every trace of blood fading into its natural blend. This is the amount of time it has taken for the young Vicomte to decide he is no longer a prisoner as much as he is an unwanted guest. Erik trusts the boy cannot hope to escape, so during these long days he leaves him to his self in the empty cavern. Raoul stretches his legs and lets his arms dangle healthily at his sides, for he does not know when next he will be unable to use them.

Now he sits beside Erik, and together they listen to the chorus of voices floors away on the stage. Business, after almost a month, has not quite continued as normal, but the managers must keep the Opera House funded. Erik's eyes are closed, and his head is back as he enjoys the sound of music. He breathes it in and out, and Raoul can only watch, half in boredom, as the vulnerable throat calls to be slit.

Erik is too strong, physically, but Raoul has discovered one thing for certain. He knows, now, why he has been kept here. There is no ransom for his head, there is no promise of his death or return. Erik only feeds him, lets him drink, and keeps him alive. Occasionally, when he says something to the dislike of the Phantom, Erik strikes him. He does not mind. Raoul has been beaten before.

"You aren't going to kill me," Raoul murmurs, and this draws sharp blue eyes to him. "Perhaps at first you were, but not now."

Erik's brow contorts, and his mouth becomes a half smile. He closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the chair. "Don't speak now, boy, your silence is golden."

"I know why you will not kill me," Raoul persists, though Erik ignores him. "You are all alone, and you realize it. You know it more than ever before that you are alone. You know she is not coming back. You don't even want that anymore, it is so unreachable. You want a companion."

Raoul flinches, because the back of Erik's hand has poised to strike him again, hard. Raoul does not feel a blow, and so his head snaps back, and he stares the other man straight in the eyes, challenging. Erik lets his hand drop, and Raoul wants to shrink beneath that stare. It is chilling, it penetrates. There is something beneath it that tells Raoul he has again spoken when he should have remained silent, for too many truths are revealed in his half second assumptions.

"You are waiting for her, still," is all Erik says. He approaches Raoul, and his dark presence towers over Raoul, over powering, commanding, and causing the younger man to take a timid step back once risen from his chair. "Do you know how long I have been waiting?" he asks, and Raoul averts his eyes, searching for an answer that will not come. "No matter how long _I_ wait here, Vicomte... no one is coming to save me. You say that you know why I mean to keep you here." Erik nods. "It is true... that I would have you suffer my fate." He pauses, and the twisted shape of his mouth smiles, wryly. "And even so, you will never truly be alone."


	12. 12

**12**

Erik is wrong. Raoul, four days later, is absolutely alone. There is no other voice around him to speak with, and when Erik is present he only batters away at his organ. The music is maddening, and Raoul paces. Erik does not seem to have a distinct aim for a tune. He wants to make sounds, loud crashes and hideous moans, and his notes sore in obedience before they plummet. An hour of this, and Raoul can no longer concentrate, or think.

He approaches the organ, and draws in a breath to shout over the sound, the horrible sound, but before he even finishes thinking about what he might say, Erik ceases. He turns and regards Raoul, expressionless, and Raoul forgets how to speak.

"Are you finished?" he finally, dry, and even childish. Everything he does is childish, and the Phantom takes sport in watching him try and be a man. Erik smirks, faintly, and he turns with satisfaction back to his music. Long fingers expertly take the keys, like wading through water with no visible effort, and Raoul feels the columns of his spine tremble in his skin. The music is not just unstructured this time, but gloriously chaotic. Erik does not appear to be following any written music. Where it lives Raoul cannot know. He takes a step back, and another. Raoul is fascinated, and terrified, because he knows how it is pulling him in.

Erik turns to face him, and the notes end as quickly as they began. Raoul feels watched. He wishes Erik would give him a shirt. The lair is not immune to the cold as Erik seems to be.

"I played the violin," Raoul says. "As a boy."

Erik's smile widens, but there is nothing pleasant in it. "Violin. Thin, weak notes that sound more like the whine of harpies than music. No strength." Raoul again feels naked, and his cheeks burn with indignity, but he says nothing in reply, nothing to further satisfy the Phantom's taunts. Erik pauses, thoughtfully, and he stands. Raoul does not know what to do, but Erik's fingers are digging into his bicep, and he is guided like a puppet on a string to the seat before the organ.

Raoul knows that refusing will probably get him an empty belly for three days, so he obediently lowers himself to the bench, and hesitantly touches the keys. The organ stirs at the slightest touch, and he shakes his head. "I cannot play."

Erik snorts, and he leans over Raoul so that his shirt hangs about him and brushes the back of the other man's shoulders, and his unkempt hair falls in the only eye Raoul can see. His scent is strong, a pleasing mixture of spicy soap and sweat. Raoul's fingers twitch uncomfortably as they rise from the keys. He does not wish to further disturb them with clumsiness, but Erik's palms slide over his, and his fingers are no longer his. Erik plucks them from the keys as if he were a slow child, and he holds them like a vice.

"It is unimaginably simple," he murmurs, and hours pass. Through Raoul, Erik manages an entire whirlwind of melody and grace. It is perfect, as if they are sitting as one, until Erik releases Raoul's hands, and he falters. Raoul cannot falter as often as he would like, because with every falter comes a bruise, and a new sensation of pain. Erik is behind him, commanding, but also locked. With every falter, Erik slips his finger beneath Raoul's, pressing down with his thumb, and twists hard enough to earn a cry from the Vicomte. Four twists, two crunches, and adrenaline pumps through Raoul's veins. His breathing is hard, but he cannot stop playing what he does not know.

Erik gives him control back, and Raoul snatches his trembling hands from the keys. They ache. Erik stands over Raoul, and lets him slump forward. He reaches out, slowly, as if to touch Raoul's hair, but decides against it. The boy is better off without comfort.

"I do my best not to anger you," Raoul's voice breaks, hoarse. "I keep out of your way. You insist on hurting me."


	13. 13

**13**

Hours later, Erik has put his hands to better use. On a canvas, in the little side room some ways away from his music, he is painting her likeness. Raoul watches from the water, where he is allowed to bathe. Erik's hands move quickly, and his strokes of coal appear entirely crude, utterly misshapen, until he pulls his hands back to calculate his next stroke. Only then can Raoul see where the image is coming through the canvas, and he leans forward against the bank, brow contorted, fascinated. Something sinks inside when he the face becomes clear.

Christine.

Raoul turns away, and wades deeper into the water. He doesn't wish to see what he may no longer hope for. His keeps his bruised hands close to his body, protectively, and stands alone by the iron gate to watch.


	14. 14

**14**

Since he saw the completed portrait four days ago, only one thing has plagued the Vicomte's thoughts. After almost two months alone, trapped like an animal, a fly to the spider, Raoul finds he can think rationally late at night. Erik does not sleep in his bed, or anywhere near that Raoul can find, so Raoul has taken it upon himself to use it. He thinks of the painting. Decides. Obsesses.

She is no longer what she used to be to him, love, his heart. Raoul has starved. He has been left naked in the cold. He has been chained with no room to sit up or raise his head. He has dwelt in misery. She is a symbol of what was, and being the last image he saw of the world above, back when there was no pain to fear, she is a symbol of what could be. His freedom.

Raoul has spent weeks studying the exits and entrances of the Phantom. Long after Erik has tried, he crawls from the bed and attempts escape. It is hopeless from the moment it begins, and Raoul only meets an enraged Phantom. He manages to strike out first, an open-palmed cuff on the deformed side of his face, but Erik, when his howl of pain ceases has already gained on him. He is beaten, rightfully. Erik shows no mercy, as he plucks Raoul's mewling form from the rocky floor and drags him with gritted teeth to the bank of the lake. Raoul does not want to go back into the water, and his fingers scrabble helplessly along the crevices of stone as Erik pulls him in.

It is cold, and Raoul cries out as he goes rigid, struggling. Erik wraps him in chains, and the water splashes violently all about him, cold. Erik hits him, once, twice, hard across the face.

"Never touch me again," he growls, turning to leave. Raoul's head hangs limp from his neck. He does not think he will live to.


	15. 15

**Note: **My God, sincere apologies for the length of this one. I mean, that's pushing vignette. Sheesh. Hey, what can ya do? Anywho, yeah, I guess I am kind of cruel to Raoul... but would you rather me be nice and sappy, or completely butcher his character by making him evil!Raoul who completely goes bipolar and becomes a rapist just because Christine's got a crush on someone else? Poor fella. This fandom doesn't like him. S'like he doesn't have a home.

**Real quick question**: does anyone have any thoughts on the plausibility of a slash fic without too much angst or tragedy? anyone? anyone? Bueller? Thanks!

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**15**

Two days in the water, and Raoul's fears have flooded back to him. He hates the lake with every fiber in his being, hates it so much his throat swells with emotion, and he breathes hard enough to be heard on all sides of the lair, all the time, bruised face tilted to stare at the water. His skin is sponged and tightened with cold, and he grits his teeth, letting the chains ring together as he shifts. Escape. He has failed, again, and his useless effort has brought him to this. The realization has been here some time now, but he has not truly considered it before.

The real escape is around him. He is sitting in it. Raoul tests, wondering if he could go through with it. He dips into the water, and pulls up again. He still lacks the courage.

Erik, face marked with Raoul's desperate strike, a blackening bruise, seems to read his mind. Pale eyes study him, narrowed with still brewing anger. He watches, and by the way Raoul has drawn within himself, sinking slowly into the murky water, Erik has already discovered his prisoner's intentions. Vehemently he rises, and as his body uncoils from its crouch Raoul immediately jerks up out of the water, but Erik still marches toward him. Not a second passes until fingers prod at his bare upper body, and the chains are extricated, hard enough to leave more bruises.

Raoul lets Erik rip the last chain past the ball of his shoulder, and in that split second of Erik's vulnerability Raoul plows all of his strength into the other man. Water rushes cold over their heads, but Raoul knows that if he is not the first to hit the bank then Erik will again have the upper hand. He breaks the surface first, but Erik is never far behind, and hope sinks as hands are again rough on his biceps. He is pulled under, a furious Erik standing over him in the waist deep water, holding him below.

Raoul is drowning. He knows this, and as precious air still remains in his lungs he wonders whether or not to let himself be taken by the water, and the delicious blackness of an end. It is escape, an escape not even the Phantom can deny him. Before the pain stirs in his lungs, Erik pulls him back up, and instantly, against his will, Raoul drags in a gasp, scouring his throat. Erik fists his hair, and ropes an iron arm across his chest, holding him tight so Raoul cannot move out of his range.

"They have left you," he snarls, and Raoul pants, chest heaving more life into his lungs. "_She_ has left you, she does not _care_, Vicomte," his lips move hotly against Raoul's ear, almost grazing. "Does that not make you long for death?" His words are spoken with a bottomless truth, and when Raoul is silent he shakes a response from him. Amidst the endless gasps and desperate, involuntary moans, Raoul hoarsely manages a very faint, almost inaudible reply. Erik yanks back on his hair. "What!"

"Yes," Raoul says, almost sobs as he tries to breathe, but before a decent spell of air can make it down his throat Erik forces him under again. The water rushes. He is surrounded by death, but this time he does not struggle. Fear triggers every instinct to revolt, but it takes courage to remain motionless. Courage Raoul knows is shaky at best, and he tries not to fight for his life. Above him, Erik's voice seems miles away, but the words, horrible words still reach his ears.

"They would have come for you by now," he is saying, pushing on the younger man's head and the crook of a thinning shoulder. Time is running out, and still Raoul resists every urge to struggle. He cannot fight. Erik will always win. "They have abandoned you to my darkness. There is no hope, Raoul," for the first time, he is called by name. The pain in his lungs seems almost more intense now, his body shrieking in a final call to survive. "No hope for anything. If you wish to die," Erik's voice has softened. It is difficult to hear now. The hand in his hair flattens out from its snarl, and holds down with gray intention. "I will help you do it. Death is the only solace from such agony, you and I know it well. I cannot deny you this last choice."

Raoul's arm jerks. His body wishes to fight for the surface, and his head swims, his lungs want to explode. The world darkens, and blurs together. Erik is beside him now, kneeling, his hardly above the waterline. Even in darkness, Raoul can hear his voice. Sweet and bitter salvation.

"If you want to die," he says. "Then die."

The chord snaps. There is a moment, so brief it can hardly be passed as an event, when Raoul attempts his own escape, but Erik does not allow it. Two choices lay before him: a moment more of pain, and then freedom of what is to come, a blackness, comfort.

A breath of air, and Raoul is a prisoner again. In cowardice and loathing, he realizes he cannot handle another moment of pain. The agony is too slow, and his resilience is not all he thought that it was. He cannot pull away from Erik. Ever the coward, he instead turns direction, and reaches out like a lost child, clinging half naked and freezing to Erik's shirt, fingers scrabbling to hold on to something. The weight causes Erik's falter, and they are both under now.

He screws his eyes shut, and waits to be pulled to safety, or die.

A second passes, two. Erik stops trying to drown him, and instead slides strong arms beneath his, and the strength that means to end Raoul's life now liberates him from the water. The younger man drags in gulps of air, though still pressed to the collar of Erik's shirt, and as he breaks away he brings shaking hangs up to hide his face in shame. Raoul cries, to himself, for reasons he cannot pinpoint. He cannot remember the last time he shed tears like this. Grief, exhaustion, relief, and fear.

Erik is unsure what to make of it, and says nothing while his prey attempts to compose himself. It is one of the single most soul-shaking sights he has ever witnessed, a man surrendered to his cowardice and finding no other release from such shame. Expressionless, Erik turns, and leaves it. He departs the lake. Raoul does as well, he hates the lake. He glares at it still, crawling from its belly and onto the bank.

When Raoul has found strength to stand, Erik faces him. "I have kept you alive," he says. "When all the rest of the world finds no worth in you to hope." He turns away again. "Remember that."


	16. 16

**Note:** Thanks for the input, helped a bunch. I promise no more questions, I'll shut my trap and abuse Raoul some more. Raaa!

-

**16**

There are things Raoul knows that he must come to understand: that the Phantom will not allow him to escape, and that if he attempts again he will be beaten again, or worse, put into the water. He does not know if he could cope being in the lake again, and the very thought sends a shudder through his body. Erik does not notice. The man is writing, composing. It is all he ever does, and for the most part ignores Raoul except for meals.

Raoul is no longer bound as a prisoner, and he does not wish to encourage any more hostility. He is one man, and can only handle so much.

They sit together, some feet away from the bed, in the chamber that resembles more of a study than a bedroom. The table is small, but it accommodates them both. Erik is silent, scribbling quickly, and Raoul wonders if it is wise to disturb him.

"Give me something to do," he finally says, and Erik does not stop writing. Raoul sets both legs beneath the table, and his fingers idly fiddle with his cuffs. Erik has finally given him fresh clothing. He remains ignored. "Anything," Raoul fails to keep the childish tone out of his voice. He clears his throat. "I don't even know what time of day it is anymore."

Erik says nothing, but he gives a short nod to the grandfather clock in the corner. It is old, covered in dust, but it seems to work. Seven thirty-six. Raoul sheepishly ducks his head, and his hands find his lap. "I didn't hear it," he says.

"Of course not," Erik's mouth twists into the wryest of what could pass for a half-smile. "The ticking would drive a man mad. I have modified it."

Raoul suppresses a comment he knows will only earn him more pain. Instead, he finds something else to talk about. "I could help you," he offers, and the words remind him just how bored out of his mind he really is. The half smile turns into a sneer.

"You," he snorts. "You cannot even read music. You are useless."

"I read music," he says, defensively. "But music is not my life." Raoul immediately questions what his life has truly come to.

"That, Vicomte, is the ravine between us. Your utter lack of appreciation. Now be quiet," blue eyes, unimpressed beneath dark brows, meet him briefly before going back down to their work. Raoul realizes that the Phantom has not wore his mask since he banished Christine. Raoul averts his own eyes, disturbed that he has not noticed. Rather than dwell on the thought, he timidly lifts a sheet of Erik's music, and immediately lets it go when he catches Erik looking at him.

"I could put these in order," Raoul waits, holding his breath, as Erik stares at him. He seems torn between utter annoyance, and indecision. "You work in chaos," he adds, and Erik's brows contort, considering. Finally, he plucks one of the sheets from the jumbled pile between them. His index finger taps the right hand corner.

"They are numbered. One-hundred and three pages," he lets it drop. There is warning in his tone, but not an unwillingness to compromise. He continues on working, and Raoul takes his silence as permission. Slowly he begins to pick a few pages off the table. "If you crinkle, or lose any of my work," Erik adds, without looking up. "It will not be pleasant for either us of."


	17. 17

**17**

There is a city in Erik's mind. It does not exist, but it closely resembles Paris, long into the blackest night. Raoul has spotted this painting on more than one of the Phantom's canvases, and sketched out across various easels throughout the lair. When Erik has left he studies them, over and over, each time finding something he had not noticed before. There is something in them that is fascinating, and more than that, calming. He can stare at them for hours, and forget that he is really standing barefoot on the rocks of a dim little den beneath the earth.

Darkness spreads over the rooftops and shingled slopes. Dark, but not foreboding, or hopeless. Erik has allowed hope to enter his art, in the form of tiny, glimmering stars around the absent moon. Light, dim, dark yellow with the slightest touch of pale green is the distant horizon.

Raoul has been in this prison for three months now, and he cannot think straight anymore. He itches with curiosity that cannot be quenched through such solitude. Erik is never around to answer them, and even if he was, he would declare Raoul an imbecile and be gone. Such things worry Raoul. He wants to paint now. Paint, or find a way to not stumble over his own fingers while idly playing at the organ.

More than that, he worries, because now he seeks approval.


	18. 18

**18**

Erik is not interested in teaching the boy anything. He tolerates questions about his music because silence is a thing he can only take so much of. Thought solitude has been the meaning of his existence it is not the entirety. He listens to voices for the most of his day, as he writes, while he ventures out into the workings of the Opera House. Raoul's voice allows him to remain in his home.

In turn, Raoul does not always express passion in learning anything about music, which is of course why Erik forces him to play. His comfort is not one of Erik's priorities. The boy has been here for so long, it seems, and he still cannot seem to catch on to the placement of the keys. Notes are only found and properly executed when Raoul's hands are guided by his own. The swollen knuckles and bruises are almost gone. Even when Erik stands behind him, arms folded at the small of his back to avoid contact, he feels the points of his shoulder blades briefly gaze his torso through his brown silk waist coat.

The back of a neatly combed head leans ever so briefly against his chest. Raoul keeps his hair always clean and pulled back behind his head, at the base of his neck. A black band is there – knotted ribbon. Almost gentle curiosity drives him a subtle step forward. Raoul tenses, slightly. The distance between them is enough to lack contact, but a barrier of heat fills the empty space. Raoul plays on, sloppily, with an immeasurable degree of hesitance and uncertainty, but he persists. Erik is not entirely focused on the sound as the sight. His hand rises from his side, and finds the ponytail, neatly trailing from the black ribbon.

Gold. Dark gold.

Beneath it is the nape of his neck, fragile and warm. Very warm. He even feels the skin prickle up against his fingertips as he traces the line of hair, behind his ear, and up into the smooth gold that lies flat on his scalp. Raoul's response to Erik's touch is not horrified or disgusted. It is much like a cat leaning into the hand of its master, adoringly. Longing, even.

Or perhaps it is Erik's imagination. His fingers twitch at the small of his back. Raoul has ceased his attempts to play.

Thoughtfully, Erik grips his prisoner's bicep, probing the fibers of muscle beneath the clothing. The crook of his shoulder. Raoul holds his breath, bracing for cruelty. Erik only makes a noncommittal noise in the bottom of his throat. "You're getting strong," he says.


	19. 19

**Note:** Stockholm syndrome? Shyeah. Second time I've got a comment like that, actually. :)

-

**19**

Over the course of three weeks Raoul has noticed his meals have become increasingly meager. Three days ago Erik gave him dinner, and since then there has been no sign of the other man. Hunger has set deep in his belly, and the neglect of his keeper has left him to idle about the lair with nothing to do. He is alone again, and so hungry. Two more days pass. Before his capture, he had never gone a day in his life without a square meal.

When Erik finally does appear, after a week, Raoul is finishing a bath. He refuses to actually go into the lake, but he still stands beside it and uses the water. In the very back of the lair, where he assumes one of Erik's passages lead out to the world, he hears movement. Seconds later Erik appears from behind the curtains of his bedroom. He has forgotten he is naked, and the expression on Erik's face – brief, brief discomfort - reminds him his clothes are actually six feet away from his lean, bare frame. He awkwardly reaches for his trousers and tries to maintain balance as he steps a damp foot into one of the legs. He almost loses it, and with a tentative hope he manages to pull them on. Erik snorts.

"You cannot even dress yourself," he says, as Raoul brushes still wet hair from his face and slips into his shirt, neglecting the buttons. He watches Erik, unsure whether or not to ask why he has not been fed, or to let the other man do the talking. Raoul just stands, wet hair clinging to his forehead and cheek, lips parted and flushed. Erik only grazes him with a glance as he passes. On the table he lays out the contents of his overcoat: two bottles of unmarked liquor, and what looks like vile of linseed oil. Erik keeps the linseed oil, and makes his way towards his makeshift studio. He has decided to continue Christine's portrait. Raoul shoots a glance, bewildered, from the bottles to Erik. Without turning, the Phantom says, "By all means, Vicomte, have a drink."

"You brought it for me?" Raoul wonders, half in disgust. Erik turns his canvas to face him, and begins uncovering his paints.

"I have no use for it, I never touch it," he replies, disinterested. "It should give you something to do."

"Drunk," Raoul snaps. "You expect me to drink myself into silence, so as not to interrupt you," Erik is ignoring him, so he approaches the studio, timidly, and beings to absently close his shirt. "You won't feed me. I know what you're doing. You are starving me, to keep me weak." A little smile comes to Erik's mouth, mirthless, and he continues to ignore his prisoner. Raoul spins on his heel to the liquor, and picks a bottle up by the neck, looking it over in complete disgust. "You think I'll take this out of desperation," he murmurs, softly. "That I will stay down here, and rot. Waste away, until you can dump my body at her feet." His teeth clench, hard, and he gives a sharp cry, hurling it to the edge of the lake. It crashes, hard on the rocks, and breaks into large shards of thick glass. A few roll over into the water.

"Well I won't," he seethes, having Erik's attention now. The older man only arches a brow, and does not find it necessary to move as Raoul stalks toward him. "I will live through this, I promise you."

Erik sets his brushes down, and wipes his hands off on the towel on the table. "I never said I would let you die," Erik reminds him, and moves toward the other bottle of liquor, completely passing Raoul without so much as a glance. He touches the top, and leaves it there, waiting to be consumed. "Break it if you want. It is all you will be consuming over the next week, boy."

"You can't keep doing this," Raoul says, slowly following Erik's steps. His voice is torn between hoarse, complaining, and demanding. He hates its instability. "These bouts of starvation where you think I'll become too strong – you can't keep doing it!" Raoul shouts, and it earns a flare in Erik's face. His mouth becomes a white line, and something flashes in the narrowed pale eyes. "You can't keep doing this!"

"Can't?" Erik breathes, savagely, coming to stand his full height before Raoul. He has several inches on the boy, and it is enough to make Raoul want to shrink back, anything to avoid the man's wrath. He is hungry, so hungry. It keeps him from cowering, and Raoul lets Erik get as close as he wants, and stays his ground, despite the urge to lower his head and not make contact with the horrible eyes. "I can't? Boy," Erik's fingers stab into the flesh of Raoul's forearm and holds his wrist up, before both their faces. It is little more than a skeleton, stretched over with pale flesh.

Dawning horror catches Raoul, and his mouth hangs slightly, searching for words, but Erik twists him bodily and forces him over the table, still pinning his spindly wrists before his face with his palm. Raoul cries out as his shirt his forced off of his body, ripped at the sleeves, and Erik's hand plunges into his side. His fingers dig into the soft flesh below the rib cage, and wrap up around the hard swell of the bone. Raoul screams, hard, as Erik pulls sharply at it, once.

"I already have," he snarls. "I already have. Look at yourself," Erik scrapes away from the abdomen and goes lower, hooking three fingers into the curve of his hipbone. There is no fat, and hardly any flesh to protect it, and he is able to almost curl his entire hand around the pelvis, crushing. Raoul is still screaming, but they begin to stammer, into sharp cries. "You are skin and bone, only. I have done and will do to you what I please. I have spared your life, but you still serve my purpose, do you understand?" He shakes Raoul, again, and shouts into his ear as he jerks at the jutting bone. "Do you!"

"Yes!" Raoul shouts, hoarse and cracking. Erik immediately releases him, and picks up the second bottle. He sets it on the step, away from the table, and watches Raoul stumble away from it, examining himself for blood or breakage. There is neither. Erik is precise when he wants to be.

"I have done it," Erik continues. "You will eat tomorrow, again, until the time comes again to keep you under control. Take heart, you will become accustomed to it." He ascends the steps, and Raoul settles at the bottom of them, cradling new bruises and picking his ripped sleeves off of his arm. Erik takes a moment to watch, half-lidded and calculating. He is not entirely pleased with himself. The boy still does not understand. He takes one step down. "Raoul," he says, softly, and the boy turns to look up at him, eyes wide with a bizarre excitement at the use of his name, mixed with dying pain. "You are as nothing to me. Do not tell me what I am capable of."

Raoul turns his head, and he absently pushes his damp hair, now damp with sweat, back from his face again. Another day has gone by, another rise of anger from Erik. He is still hungry. The last bottle still rests on the steps. He crawls forward, only a few feet, and reaches for it. A box instead drops beside it, and rolls down the steps and stops at his knee. He picks it up, and opens the thin wooden lid. Slices of bread. Not much, but it is something.

"If you're going to mewl like an animal, you will eat like one," Erik says, brashly. "Be dressed, tomorrow, if you plan to eat at my table."


	20. 20

**20**

"You never wear your mask," Raoul murmurs, assigned the mundane task of softening Erik's paint. The artist is only watching him, arms folded, expression stoic. "Not anymore."

Erik lifts his chin to regard Christine's face. He wonders how to improve the work he has already done. "It bothers you," he says, nonchalantly.

"I'm only curious," Raoul replies. "You hide behind nothing anymore."

"Give me a reason," Erik's face is entirely in the candlelight, his dark hair falling over the devastatingly handsome side of his face, and his left brow pulled down, judgmental. Raoul catches himself staring, fixedly, and does not stop. The other side of Erik is so hideously malformed it is a wonder he keeps so many mirrors around, or how he is able to hold on to such dignity and grace with no mask.

_Give me a reason_. Raoul hears the reply in the corner of his mind. Paint-slicked fingers stop churning red.

"What does that mean?" he asks. Erik's smile deepens into his cheek.

"It means, young man, that there is neither a grace too compelling or a beauty overpowering in this little lair of mine to hide from," he comes to his feet, and pets Raoul's hair in mock affection as he passes. "But there is still beauty."


	21. 21

**Note:** I promise this is the last bout of real unrestrained abuse from Erik. Sheesh. That, and I apologize for the length. Long. Also, it's tech week, those of us who truly knows what that means will understand if I dont get this thing moving for another few days. Thanks for reading :D

-

**21**

Raoul said he would not rot and waste from hunger inflicted by the Phantom of the Opera. For almost a month he has kept from the liquor, and he has eaten, but a grumbling belly is the least of his suffering. He is almost entirely alone. Erik is hardly there, only every few days does he appear to bring food, or to check on the state of his prison, a dark warden silent enough to mock. Raoul does not know where the only other human voice has gone. He only knows that he is alone.

While Erik is gone, he continuously searches for Erik's exits, continuously tries to escape, but the ghost hides his secrets well.

He has been in this dank, dark little hole for half of one year. Half a year, and none have found him. He has finally given in, and become a victim to his drink. Half a bottle later, Erik returns. It is late at night, or so Raoul may suppose from the silent clock. Midnight or somewhere past, he cannot care to focus. He hides the bottle sloppily behind his thigh, as he resides on the rocky steps. Erik pauses, and as he removes his cloak he regards Raoul with quiet suspicion. He is dressed and masked well this night, and Erik passes into his studio. He returns, still in his dress coat, but with neither a wig or a mask. He can only stand to masquerade for so long. Darkened eyes flick to Raoul.

"What an interesting smell you've acquired tonight," he says. "No point in concealing your drink, we all know what we are."

Raoul keeps the neck of the bottle clutched in a sweat-slicked fist, and he comes slowly to his feet, rising to Erik and coming short several inches. "Where have you been?" he asks, voice thick and bordering on a slur. Erik ignores him. "Where have you been?" he demands, begins to build in anger, and Erik detects it. He pointedly ignores Raoul's question, and removes his coat.

"Goodnight," he murmurs, insincere. He knows none of Raoul's nights are good ones. "I take my leave."

"No," Raoul snaps. Erik frowns at him, raking his gaze over the young man's body with new disgust. He is drunk, red faced and flustered, stupid, and he is still beautiful. Instant courage is pumping through him with every beat of his heart. He is in dangerous waters. The young man stares at him, trying to look through him, understand, lips burning with the color that taints his cheekbones, breath shallow. The smell of liquor is thick around him. "You are never going to let me go," he whispers. "Are you?"

Erik decides he is not worth the trouble. He turns away, but Raoul's voice rises.

"Don't ignore me," he growls. "Don't ignore me, and leave me here – _answer_ me!" His tone has dropped, dangerously. Erik ignores still, and he hates it. He seethes hatred, breathing hard, hissing in his own ears. Erik has kept him here too long, he has waited too long alone in be passed over. "I said don't leave," he grits through clenched teeth. "Come back," Erik keeps heading up the steps. "Tell me where you have been!"

"I let you know all you need to know," Erik says, over his shoulder. "Go to bed, Vicomte. Sleep it away."

Raoul follows him with unsteady, ill-placed steps, and his hip bumps the table. Erik is in his bedroom, hanging a coat on a thin wooden rack. "You're a monster," Raoul says, and earns a scathing look from Erik. "You're a monster, you wretched, pitiful creature," his voice becomes a hoarse, slurred growl, and Erik's mouth tightens into a white line. "You watch her, don't you? You wear your mask when you're out, because you know if she saw you again she would reel at your face!"

Even in a haze of drink, Raoul knows his attack serves no purpose, save reaction, but it is all he wants, answers, even if it is hate. He can accept hate. The liquor has dulled his senses, so when Erik rips the bottle from his fingers, and backhands him with the other he can hardly feel it. He feels impact, but only faint pain. He loses his footing, only to the edge of the bed. Still stands, but Erik towers.

"Hit me if you want," Raoul challenges. "But answer my question, where have you been?" Erik hits him again, hard in the ribs, and Raoul falls to the bed and curls around the source of pain. It spreads, but he lifts his head and glares at his attacker. "You can't even tell me, you coward!" he shouts, hoarsely. "You're ashamed," a fist against his cheek. Erik still grips the liquor, and Raoul can feel a tooth is now loose in the back of his mouth. He spits blood. "How can you even bear to be seen around _me_ like this!" Raoul expects more pain, more impact, but instead Erik brings the liquor to his lips and takes several hard swallows. He throws it, blindly, against the wall, and Raoul watches it break, staring back at Erik in horror. "What are you- you don't drink!"

"For what I am about to do to you," Erik snarls, removing his waist coat next. "It would be better this way." Raoul frowns, not quite understanding, until a cage of fingers are around his throat, and Erik forces him flat onto the bed. Raoul freezes, and Erik pushes a hard knee between his thighs, seeking leverage. Before he can be choked, Raoul ducks into the mattress, and Erik loses his grip. The young man plows a bare-knuckled fist into Erik's chest, and it cracks. He rolls onto his side, and scrambles clumsily away, too slow, to the other side of the bed. The red sheets glare in the candlelight.

Erik, of course, will never allow escape, and he regains the upper hand by thrusting forward, and drives an elbow into the boy's side. Raoul twists again, ready to strike, but Erik brings a knee up into the ribs, between them to the bottoms of his lungs and holds it there. Raoul's expression breaks as breath is forced from him.

"All I want is an answer," Raoul says, thinly, and as he drags in a breath it becomes a ragged growl. "Where did you go!" The knee jerks beneath Raoul's waist, at his hip, and presses into the path beside his groin. Raoul bites back a cry, as a rush of thrill and pain racks his body, and he catches Erik's arm in his free hand before it comes down to break his nose. Erik sneers, horribly, irrational, laced with primal insanity. "What would you do," Raoul snarls, wrenching Erik's hand back and rising before him, before that horrible face, those eyes that will not so much as give him a second glance. "-if I tried to kill you!"

Erik simply beats him across the temple with his left hand, and Raoul falls back with his threat. Erik watches, as he clutches his face in growing agony. He only watches, straddling Raoul, half standing and towering.

"Starve me," Raoul growls, glaring at Erik and swallowing a mouthful of blood. "Beat me, hit me, push me, pull me, but answer me!" Erik stares down at him, and a little smile catches the side of his mouth. The malformed eye pulls up, slightly, and a part of the socket looks dark and hollowed. Raoul stares back.

"No," Erik says, quietly, and his hands come around Raoul's wrists, a reminder of his depleted strength. "I know how to silence you." Without warning he heaves upward, and Raoul remains deadweight, allowing himself to be dragged off of the bed. "You were born," Erik snarls, as he readjusts his grip on the young man, hands in his shirt, fingers prodding flesh, hauling carelessly upward. "-so pretty, you. Are you even a man!" Erik cries. "You mewl like an infant in my lake, are you even a man, pretty thing!"

"Don't," he begins, and Raoul suddenly remembers what always eventually forces him to silence. He tears out a cry and struggles, but Erik is stronger. "No!" he shouts, desperately, but of course Erik ignores him. He holds him hard. "No, not the water, not-" They go quickly down the steps, and Raoul's weakened legs try to catch the steps, to slow their descent, but Erik keeps dragging him ever downward. He breaks away, and falls hard to the floor, but Erik is on him again in no time, gripping him beneath the chin, around the jaw and bearing him to the ground. "No," Raoul croaks, and he resists, harder than ever, but Erik is worlds stronger. "Stop!" he cries, and it turns into a scream, deep in his chest, a howl. "I'll die if you want, kill me, don't put me in the water!" At the bank he knows the only way to keep out of the water is to drag Erik down with him. He twists, and clutches at the man dragging him, sick with dread and fear. "I don't care, I don't want answers," he stammers, loud and clumsily, shaking to tears he refuses to release. His resolve dies. "I'm sorry, I'll do anything, don't put me in the-"

Erik shoves him, roughly, before he finishes, but not into the water. His hand is still around Raoul's throat, and the other is still keeping his other arm down. A knee again comes between his legs, allowing Erik to move in closer. He seizes the other man's jaw, forcing him to look the Phantom in the face.

"Why do you _do_ these things!" Erik shouts, demands, and Raoul's eyes are wide with a mix of irrational terror, and they shine with tears of strain. "Why can you not just be here! Why do you make me this way, you make me a monster!"

Raoul says something, inaudible, and Erik releases his throat impatiently.

"I'm alone," he manages, thinly, scratchy. "With only the sound of the water to keep me sane, I hate it," His answer is enough to lift Erik off of him, slightly, too roused and riled to care about killing him anymore. He sits on the bank, now, and his faces buries in his hands. He listens, quietly. Raoul only shakes his head, and pulls up to hunch over his bruised middle. By now, he is almost used to such pain. "All alone," he admits, grimacing bitterness, and numb.

Erik does not let his head up from his hands. He exhales, hard, and closes his eyes against his palms. "The water frightens you?" he says, quietly. "Why does it frighten you out of your wits?"

Raoul runs his hands through his hair, and again shakes his head. "I never lost a battle until you," he murmurs, spiteful, still tasting blood. "I can't win.:

"Did you even try!" Erik snaps, and Raoul feels his heart is slowing as his composure returns. His body is calming down, and he draws in a long breath.

"I have never fought harder than how I fought for her," Raoul glances over at him, half-lidded and bewildered. "I don't know why you hate me like you do," he says. "I only ever loved her, like you did. I tried to protect her."

"Do not speak of her," Erik whispers, dryly. "She has left you."

Raoul knows. After half of a year, he knows.


	22. 22

**22**

Raoul tends to his bruises and bloody nose, nonchalantly. There is no more tantamount of pleasure or pain, it is simply another task to be completed. They are not so bad this time, as he stands before a mirror with a handkerchief, dabbing at the trail of blood beneath his nostril. It is well past three in the morning, and Erik has not yet retired, though he looks exhausted. He watches Raoul, but his mind is elsewhere.

The alcohol has long since wore off. Raoul's head feels ten pounds heavier, and aches like nothing else.

"You must have had dreams," Erik murmurs, eyes unfocused, forefinger absently stroking his bottom lip. Raoul looks at him through the mirror. "Things you wanted to be, before her," he glances at Raoul, and his eyes are shadowed by the tilt of his chin. "Before me."

"Things I wanted to be," Raoul cannot remember what he dreamed.


	23. 23

**23**

Raoul is a live doll to Erik. He was given new clothing this morning. They were laid out beside him on the bed, clean and pressed, but obviously they belong to someone significantly larger. Erik's trousers hang off of him, and the shirts are only just fitting enough not to be billowing sails around his lean frame. Raoul appreciates the gesture perhaps more than he should. Even as he touches his bruises, now fading on his cheek, he cannot concentrate on something so destructive and exhausting as anger, or hate.

Erik, for the best part of two weeks, has spent more time in the lair. Not with him, not for him, but he is still in the same plane, and the sound of another breathing presence is all Raoul can truly ask for. It is amazing, that this is what the world has brought him to: that a good day is Erik acknowledging his existence, that a better day is Erik involving Raoul in his work, even if it is only a few mindless tasks scattered throughout the day.

The Phantom returns mostly in the evening, and works late into the night, until Raoul has nodded off and wakes to find him gone, as if he were never there. Lately Erik still comes back to his portrait of Christine, obsessed with perfecting it. Raoul calls it obsession, because Erik is entirely absorbed in it, and night after night he stands ever before it, blending colors, making deeper shadows. He uses his hands in such ways as Raoul could never hope to. His creations are those of such beauty, but Raoul cannot bring himself to appreciate the portrait of Christine.

Erik obsesses over it too much, and it is so far from his own reach. Raoul watches, and every now and then he will slip a hand beneath his shirt, and finger the fading yellow and brown rise that bruises the edge of his ribcage. Even as his touch sends a dull ache deep into his body, Raoul can only concentrate on something perhaps more destructive and exhausting than hate, and far too horrible to admit. Jealousy.


	24. 24

**Note:** Not quite sex, but after almost a year, s'about time they got some action! Thanks, gals and pals, for all your great comments.

-

**24**

Dinner is quiet tonight. If at all there is any talk, it will only be a series of awkward, pregnant pauses that Erik would prefer not to suffer through. He sets his knife down beside his plate, and when Raoul is given a brief glance Erik sees that the young man has hardly touched his food. Raoul is not eating. He is staring hard at Erik, in a manner only a spoiled young Vicomte will when something is not to his satisfaction. Erik's left brow arches, as it always does when regarding his reluctant prisoner, and smiles when he catches the sharp blue fix. It is a glare of the variety he knows too well, and it sparks his amusement.

"You throw fits when I starve you," Erik begins, and a flicker of desperation passes Raoul's expression, as if he is so sure Erik will tune him out again. "You try to fight me, you declare your utter loathing of my very being, and yet when I give you a meal, and allow you to eat like a gentleman you behave like a child." No reply. Raoul does seem, however, very self-conscious of his expression, so he averts his eyes to his plate. Erik exhales, hard, and massages the bridge of his nose. "Why are you not eating, child?"

Raoul's hair is pulled back from his long, sharply-angled face, and it makes him appear lighter. So much lighter, than when it falls around his face in clumps and leaves his eyes to peek from behind the strands like an angry, frightened cat. He is twisting something around his dry hands, nervously, in his lap – probably his lapel. Erik would stop him from wrinkling the new clothing he was given, but the boy seems too unstable to prod. He does not like Erik calling him child, Erik can see as much. "You'll hit me," Raoul says, hotly. "If I tell, you will beat me," Erik snorts, genuinely amused. It only encourages Raoul. "Or starve me. Or put me in the lake and leave me in the dark, or do other horrible things to me, because you won't hear my words."

Erik's face splits into a smile. One side is darkly and dangerously handsome, the other is Grendel, dreaming of devouring his prey. "You starve yourself for me," Erik points out, and Raoul colors slightly. "Go on, Vicomte, I promise no retaliation."

Raoul stares at him, deciding, wondering if this will only earn another addition to his collection of bruises, still around his eye and temple, or if Erik is truly willing to listen. The ill-feeling has been in his pit all morning, sour, and if he does not speak it will eat him as disease from the inside. He braces himself for the inevitable, and swallows hard. His mouth seems dry and sticky, and his throat is aching hollow.

"She is not coming for either of us," he spits out, and Erik's face drops into a closed off, blank stare, and he turns back to his plate. Raoul knows he only has seconds to keep Erik's attention, and desperation stirs with bitterness. "She won't come for you, not even to save me."

"No more," Erik orders, warns, and his composure hangs on the edge of his reason, but it remains. "You have spoken your piece, and I have listened. If you speak again, you will bleed."

He closes back within himself, an iron gate, a foundation of only Erik and his illusions, and there is no room for Raoul's frustration. The young man breathes, hard, to contain himself and not burst out again. He does not want to bleed, he has bled enough down here. Words will not express, words cannot reach or penetrate the wall Erik has built around himself, nothing. Erik cannot be reached. He has no need of a mask, Raoul has come to realize.

He stands, one-shot movement, and his unused utensils clink against his plate. Erik does not care to look at him, and so Raoul reaches up and rips his tie from his neck, shedding it at his shoed feet as he stalks toward the studio. His dress coat is next, tossed to the side with the twisted lapel with disgust. Erik watches with one eye, and notes to force the boy to do a good bout of laundry the next time he decides to leave his clothes scattered about the floor.

It is just as well, only just as well. Raoul does not care, he knows what he wants, once and for all. In a new, red fury, feet shoulders width apart, he stands before Christine's portrait. It seems so tall now, set on the pedestal of Erik's easel, dark eyes staring into nothing. So much of Erik is in this painting, and Raoul knows he is as well. It was Erik's window to her, to hope. Her face was once his hope as well, a hope he is no longer allowed to hold on to. Raoul draws in a slow breath, and with a trembling hand he picks up one of the thicker coal sticks, and holds it hard in his palm. Black rubs against his fingers, until he raises it and brings it down hard on the drying oil- a thick, ash-black streak across her white face. Once, twice, three times.

Such a release is unlike any other. As if the only rope holding him above the water has just severed, so does something deep inside Raoul. He feels a change, from what was to what is, and for the first time in almost a year does not resist. There is no resistance, and he does not listen to anything but the force that drives his knuckles to press his palm harder around the soft coal, collecting it heavy enough on his skin to reach up and smear it mercilessly over her eyes. His chest is tight, and heaving, and with a cry he knocks it hard to the floor. The canvas crashes from the pedestal.

Raoul stares at it, tears gathering in his eyes, of release, of anger, of hate, and he feels Erik grab at him from behind before he even remembers who it is, and gives no resistance. He is thrown violently aside, passed over. He picks himself up to sit and watch, as Erik tenderly picks the painting off of the floor, moaning in despair as he inspects the damage, like a parent cradling a lost child. It is a new change that begins snagging teeth on the walls of Raoul's inside. Pity. Guilt, as Erik traces her images, the last gesture, a last goodbye to something that was gone long before he lost it.

Fear pangs within him as Erik suddenly turns on Raoul, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes dark with hatred, and like a demon out of Hell he tears at the younger man. Raoul is still, perfectly still as his shoulders are hooked and forced onto the floor, so hard rocks almost stab through his shirt. He stares up at Erik's pained, drawn face, and expects death. He has taken Christine from Erik, and perhaps realizes it now. His chest seems to cave in guilt, and his breath leaves his body as Erik is now atop him.

He does not hit Raoul yet, but studies his face, incredulous, searching for reasons as to how the boy would act in such defiance, in horror. "Why!" he bellows, sorrowful and echoing about the walls of the lair. He shakes Raoul's shoulders, hard. "What have you done!"

What has he done. More than half a year. Pain, bleeding, loneliness, soulful agony. Penance for sin. Regret. It all rests in the image of Erik's eyes, and crashes on Raoul like a cold, bitter wave of ocean water. It burns, and the sudden tension between them is thick, and hot, and suffocating. Erik's body, hard and lean and so much stronger than his presses down, so close. His nose almost bumps Raoul's, and his breath is hot on the boys cheek. Raoul moves his face away from Erik's wrath, so close to that horrible reminder that makes up the side of Erik's visage. It is hot, burning, on his neck and down his chest, Erik is breathing so hard.

Thin fingers clasp his cheekbones, slide over his ears and below his jaw and forces Raoul to look upon him. Raoul jerks his head away, but cannot escape, and Erik shakes him in bewilderment. "You have destroyed me!" Erik shouts, and Raoul lifts off of the ground, only enough to hold himself up, defiance.

"She is not coming for you!" Raoul shouts back, low and husky, and resists another hard shake from Erik, his teeth rattle in his skull and his voice in his chest. "She has left you, Erik, left you here to die, like she left me – to wither, to always wonder why you were not good enough!" He jerks from Erik's grip. "She left us behind!"

"I will tear your tongue from your throat if you say it again," Erik threatens, hardly a threat, a growl to be pitied, and Raoul is dragged in by the point of a hook. Erik's mouth is, after all, so close to his. It would not take but an inch of movement – Raoul does not think, does not consider the consequences. He ends the distance between them and presses his lips, dry and awkward, testing, to the Phantoms. The kiss is hardly there, so brief, a shadow fleeing before the day. It is like any mouth he has ever kissed, and more. Erik releases the other man's face, his fingers parting rigid, knuckles baring out, and when Raoul pulls back, Erik stares at him, wide, wild with disbelief, ambivalence.

Raoul awaits punishment, but for the first time in a long time Erik does not know what he wants to do, or what he should do. Raoul moves from under him, only slightly, propped on an elbow. Erik's eyes follow his, and they take shallow breaths, quivering and quieting. Erik's lower lip, lower jaw hangs, enough for Raoul to do it again, an open kiss on a mouth that has only just this moment learned to feel. Raoul takes it back, that kissing Erik is not at all like any mouth he has ever kissed. It is rougher, harder, but the taste is warm and reminiscent of the wine he sipped at dinner. Teeth scrape against one another, lips prod, eyes remain open, curious and pursuing, a tongue crushing his. Raoul becomes instantly addicted to Erik's taste, to Erik's bottom lip, and Erik to his. He pulls at it, hard, tingling, sucking.

Thrill, thrill of something so dangerous drives him to keep going, and the lock of their mouths pass the longest seconds the Vicomte has ever experienced. He is suddenly painfully aware of Erik's hips on his own, and he is instantly rigid, pressed against Erik's thigh. It seems to wake the other man from a spell. He rips away, first from Raoul's apparent response to another man's mouth on his, and carelessly backhands Raoul across the cheek. Raggedly, Erik rises from their play, and stumbles away. Raoul feels tears sting from the impact, impact unlike all the other blows dealt by Erik's hands.

"She has left us both!" he yells after Erik's back, but he is gone. The air around him becomes tepid again, and clings to the sweat on his skin. He clutches the new print on his face. Raoul loves the sting on his face, even as the thrill fades. Pain has never been so thrilling, or so sweet.


	25. 25

**Note:** Glad you all liked that bit! Here's a bit more. Again, tech week, things are slowing, but I'm writing something particularly raunchy that should be up pretty quick. Thanks for reading! WRITE SLASH, PEOPLE! HELP THE DYING FANDOM!

**25**

Erik knows that Raoul cannot see him from where he waits in one of the ceiling tunnels of his lair, splayed out to spy. He has not returned home in close to a week, and does not intend to return soon. When he stormed out that night he with him only his white mask, and it still rests over his finely boned face. He has not yet the courage to come from behind it again. Courage and resilience seem to only truly fail when his fate shifts to something other than solitude, and for only a moment he experiences happiness. It is only a moment, only a spark in the darkness, but as he loves it he detests it. Part of him would prefer to kill the boy and be done with it.

Such a thing has never been so easy as when he first laid eyes on the suitor, and now it may never be harder. He had set doubtless in his mind to do it the moment he saw Raoul streak black across her face. Erik had already killed him in his mind by the time he separated Raoul from the portrait, and nothing, no loneliness, no misery would be worth sparing the little demon again.

Raoul had saved his own life that night, by gathering the courage to kiss such a face. Erik takes his eyes off of Raoul, and buries his hands in his dark hair, hissing one, two silent sobs deep in his chest. One little action and Raoul has opened him, a wound that will not close it seems, and has reached out and ripped to expose the beating heart he has kept hidden behind a lifetime of hatred, betrayal and delicious murder. One kiss. Another. Clever, clever boy.

Erik steals another look. What is he doing now? The Vicomte picks fantastic times to get naked. Erik is grateful he has finished bathing, because the last thing he needs is to watch another man bathe. His trousers, still almost falling off his hips, are the only clothing he has on. His honey hair hangs dark and wet around his face, and drips water that glistens in the candlelight onto his back and shoulders. He is lovely. A beautiful young man.

Erik hates him, wants to hurt him for all of these new things he brings upon the scene. Beat him, starve him- Erik feels something sink when he realizes he can not possibly hope to put him in the water again. Raoul screams in the water, a horrible, familiar sound of sorrowful fear, dark terror and hopeless dread. Erik knows that fear better than anyone. It is what drives him.

Especially when the thought always returns: he will have to, eventually, release the boy. Erik does not want to, in death or in life.


	26. 26

**26**

What Erik cannot see is over his studio, where Raoul has gathered the canvas and easel up from the ground, and left it standing again. Reluctantly at best, Raoul picks up the vile of linseed oil, and turns it over, once, twice. Erik has not returned again. It has almost been an entire week. It is strange how Raoul feels able to cope now. Guilt, however, us not a vanishing plague, and it moves him to restore the coal-marred painting.

He lifts the tiny lid, and gently dribbles some on the fingers of his right hand. He moves them in slow circles over the streaks, each turn showing clear the dried paint beneath the coal. It lifts, slowly, but surely, with minimal damage to the image. If necessary, he will have it almost finished in another week.

Not an hour passes, and Raoul feels a presence behind him, body heat, and he does not turn. He knows Erik has returned, but he will not initiate conversation.

"I struck you," Erik begins, extraordinarily calm and civil, but still hinting a cool, toneless surface. Only his eyes flick to Raoul when the young man turns to regard him. "I gave you my word I would not, and I broke it. I apologize." Erik's insane pride, generally so stubborn he would likely trade his life for it, seems quieted tonight. Not absent, hardly restrained, but willing to compromise.

Raoul considers this, and after a moment steps back beside him, so Erik is not behind. He prefers to see where Erik is.

"It's not like you to apologize," Raoul murmurs, softly. Erik's shoulder is against his, and neither men make to move. Erik's mask is still off. Raoul gestures to the painting, and lowers his eyes in dignified guilt. "I'm sorry," Raoul finds the words difficult to say in Erik's looming presence. "...for what I did to you."

Raoul sees in Erik that shift in mood, and temper. He came prepared to only extend his civility so far, and to drive it further is a difficult task. Instead of striking out again, he draws in a chilling breath, and can only stare at the painting. Expressionless. He touches Christine's mouth, still visible and a dwindling red beneath lifting coal. "What is it but a painting?" he says, aloud. "A vision I can't keep."

Raoul watches. "Condemned to wait for her," Erik's eyes flashed over to his, but Raoul only raised his brows. "The both of us."

Long moments pass in the space between them, and Raoul discovers that silence is the longest distance between two places. There is always a gap unfilled and a something unsettled between them. Raoul finds them agony. Erik has not beat him yet, or threatened, and he takes it as good, even for such an irrational soul. He is quiet. Deciding, perhaps. He always decides, but when he speaks his voice breaks from the haunting sound it carries, and the result is a low murmur – not sorrowful, not pitiful, but practical and toneless.

"You are brave, Raoul," the use of his name always catches Raoul's attention, and he forces a hinting smile down. The other man does not meet his gaze. "My own mother would not kiss me, because of this face. Since her loathing, her curse, no woman ever has."

"You captivate," Raoul reminds him, more a confession than a statement. Erik does not seem to notice. He does not smile, but there is a wry, mirthless note written across the sharp features, and the twisted features, and Erik taps a forefinger to the swell of tangled flesh beneath his eye, what should be a perfectly shape cheekbone as the other.

"All chains of the human condition are broken the moment this shield is shattered," he says. He nods to Raoul, firmly. "You are brave, or mad. Resilient perhaps. A prisoner," Erik seems to not even be breathing, as his eyes shift darkly to the other mans. "You are my prisoner. You must not do such a thing again, because I will not spare you." He is cold, closed, as he was the night Christine was banished from the Eden she destroyed. "I don't want you, Raoul," he murmurs, so soft it is barely audible, and inhumanly bitter. That is what Erik is, hardly human. He has made himself into something different. Higher or lower, he makes the choice, but there is no in between. He takes his leave. "You are still my prisoner."

Raoul nods, thoughtfully, and turns back to the painting. He does not watch Erik go, but he knows the Phantom has not left yet. "And you are still mine," he says. He does not know if Erik heard before he left.


	27. 27

**27**

The more he tries, the more Raoul begins to realize that he cannot go back. The coal lifts, but dirty gray remains to distort the beauty of the image. A vision he cannot keep. He distantly wipes his messy hands on a clean white sheet, and wonders what the hour is. It is late, in blackest night, he can imagine. He does not know, because in almost a year he has not seen a sunset, or rise. He remembers the sun, what it feels like when it warms his skin, and when it burns, and blares.

The painting moves, and Raoul instinctively ducks beneath Erik's arm as he turns it over to face the opposite wall, barred by the braces of the easel. Raoul did not even hear him enter. He is a criminal in his own territory, and breaks into Raoul's space. He stares at his prisoner, and after a long moment of looking over him, around him, into him, he averts his eyes, and pauses to catch his breath. He swallows hard, eyes fixed and intent, and flattens a hot palm against Raoul's chest, square and firm, pushing him slow and uncertain into the uneven rocky wall. Jagged points dig into Raoul's back, and his side, and he turns to look at the painting. It is closed.

"You won't replace her," Erik says, almost entirely to himself, low in his throat, a breathless shadow of a prayer. "I don't want you."

"Then go," Raoul whispers, dry as it ever has been, eyes still turns to the back of the portrait. It is unchanging, blank, and stiff with wooden braces. Nothing. "Go now, and give me your misery. That is what you do want."

Erik shakes his head, once, and moves in. Both of his hands flatten onto the wall, behind Raoul's head, and the boy feels the heat close in around him. He does not know what Erik wants of him, or how he is planning on getting it, but Raoul knows fighting is futile. He is only fortunate enough not to mind, entirely. Erik's mouth lingers, in hesitance, beside Raoul's jaw, but he does not kiss. He will not kiss. Raoul understands that, and such understanding is heavy, penetrating. He lifts his chin, and as Erik's body molds into his he closes his eyes. How lonely they both are. There is such sadness in the way they move together. Erik is not naked, not bare, he leaves his clothing on, but his body is so hot beneath his shirt and his pants that he need not be.

Raoul is hard against the other man's leg, and his thoughts descend with each shift of Erik's hips against him. Erik can feel Raoul's reaction in his own, a shudder that spreads from his center and meets the creeping sensation that crawls up from his hips. Erik feels it harder, and Raoul imagines how much more sensitive Erik's body must be than his own, and his friction sends waves of guilty, stricken pleasure over his thighs, up into his abdomen. In the dim light his hands move to hold on to Raoul, around his shoulders, beneath one of his arms, to get a better angle. He is rough, and moves hard and quick. Raoul's breath is shallow, and his abdomen caves against the cold hands sliding beneath his shirt, exploring. Erik knows the male body; it is no mystery to him.

Raoul grimaces as his tormentors hands become warm, and then hot, and he reaches between their bodies, opening his shirt and letting Erik in. Raoul's skin is soft, so soft, almost feminine and like velvet beneath Erik's hands. The distance between them is short and frequent, only enough for Erik to move back and shift, hard and harder into him, against. It is soundless, save for the scrape of clothing, shallow gasps. Erik grits his teeth, he concentrates, and crushes Raoul, merciless, against the wall, and the boy cries out, hardly able to breathe. His arousal is intense, to the point of pain, even, throbbing. His is so close now. He did not imagine the possibility of finding such release without making actual contact, but he knows he is close.

Erik bucks, once, twice, and his arms close around Raoul so tight the younger man goes entirely rigid in his grip. A stripe of pleasure strikes through him, and Erik bucks again, hands moving to hold hard onto Raoul's flanks. He is first to come, and arches, presses hard into him with a sharp cry, releasing his fingers from Raoul's skin and leaving sloppy bruises, shameful bruises. Hot wetness soaks through the front of his pants, and spread onto Raoul. His breath is ragged, as is his victim's, but before Raoul can relieve himself Erik is finished. He tears away again, and leaves Raoul aching to let go.

Raoul whispers a pained plea, barely audible, and curls within himself. He is unfinished, and shaking. Erik curses, loud, and he swears viciously at his own weakness, such weakness. He runs his hands through his hair, swearing and spitting curses. He kicks something over, Raoul cannot see what. He only sinks to the floor, slowly, against the wall, weak and red-faced, flustered. He watches through heavy lids as and strings of gold hair as Erik glowers over him, teeth bared, angry. Raoul just closes his eyes, hard, and breathes, raggedly. He tries to understand.

There is no warning. Raoul is yanked up violently from his spot on the floor, and held in place against the wall again. Erik is glaring at him still, and with a palm forces Raoul's face to the side, the cheek, keeping his gaze off of Erik's intentions. He cannot see Erik's hand.

"Don't look at me," he growls, and Raoul admits to fear. He cannot see what Erik is doing, and it frightens him. A hand, still hot, slides over his belly and past the waistline of his trousers, below the belt, and closes around him. Raoul gasps, so sharp it is hardly a gasp, and Erik's hand muffles his cry. "You cannot win this."

This is different than before, very different. No kisses, no quiet moment to be dismissed when it passes. Raoul's need for release overpowers his doubt, and regret is a dying ember. Both turn to ash as Erik moves his hand, up and over, down, not allowing Raoul to see, only to feel. He works as if in vengeance, reducing the boy to his own position, a victim of his own body. Erik does not even allow Raoul out of his trousers, and every time he cries out Erik is only further encouraged. Raoul gasps, hotly, a moan, and Erik pumps faster and harder. He is rough, so rough that he forces noises from Raoul that cannot be distinguished as pleasure or pain. Erik is certainly taking his own out of watching him writhe, hearing him whimper, helpless. Erik has always liked it that way. He has found a new method of torture, a new way to make the boy suffer.

Raoul has felt nothing of contact in months, nothing like this, and his entire body reacts with an uncontrollable ferocity, his skin alive with crawling tingles and his hips moving with Erik's hand. He is almost entirely gone, the tension and heat between them thick enough to reach out and seize, suffocating. Erik must sense it, because with a certain sense of deviousness he stops, and his hand moves to Raoul's hip.

He freezes, and turns his head to regard Erik, bewildered, desperate, confused. Erik shoves his head back to where it was, pressing into his cheek.

"What," Raoul stammers, breathless, almost entirely a whine. "What are you-"

"You will have to finish this yourself," Erik whispers, savage, a growl. "Or suffer. The night is long, Vicomte."

"You can't," he shudders, almost to tears. Erik's hand is so close. "Don't leave me like this, you -"

"Monster?" Erik slides his left hand beneath Raoul's chin, and turns his head to face him, taking in the clouded, glassy desperation in the eyes, parted lips, a variation of deep red and pink, dragging in trembling breaths. Raoul tries to speak, but it comes out as a whimper as Erik's other hand nears him again, brushing past. "Would you beg?" Erik breathes soft and cruel into his ear. "Would you beg a monster for this?"

Raoul bites his bottom lip, ignoring the pain, brow contorted, teeth briefly appearing in a grimace, and his mouth trembles as he speaks. Sweat beads on his brow. "Don't do this to me," he says, raggedly, wretched. "Don't."

"I will do anything," Erik snaps. "And everything I want to do to you. So if I want to, I will stop, and I will tie your hands so you cannot even relieve yourself." He squeezes hard around Raoul's chin, and runs a forefinger over his lips, and the look of terror mixed with dread sends a shiver up his spin. "You are my prisoner," Erik growls. "Say it."

Raoul swallows hard, and releases the breath he has been holding. "I'm your prisoner," he says, and Erik moves his hand back, right to where Raoul wants it. He screws his eyes shut, and says it again, and again, and again. Erik is so rough that Raoul hisses in pain, and faint moans escape his lips through the cage of the Phantom's fingers. Hard, fast movements, skin over skin, heat building in the trap of his trousers. In the few seconds of his remaining resilience, the last moments before he loses himself, Erik leans in. His lips move against Raoul's cheek, speaking in a voice void of sadistic pleasure, but possessing such ferocity, and soulful, sorrowful command.

"You are mine," he says, and whether or not the words trigger him, Raoul comes, crying out once, sharp, and spills hot over Erik's hand. Release has been denied for so long, and Raoul's knees buckle from fatigue when Erik tries to move away from him. It is finished, but without thinking Erik holds him up, steady, and keeps him from falling. It is not long before Erik does, however, let him go. With a single stroke of his hair, with Erik's clean left hand, the older man presses a kiss to his damp temple, and he is gone.

Raoul gingerly lifts himself from the floor, perhaps an hour later. His pants are stiff around his hips, and he knows a night of sleep will do no good.


	28. 28

**Author's Note: **Just finished up a production of Dracula, and I'm attempting to write a play before March 15, the deadline of deadlines. Updates will be slow, but I'll get them out. Thanks for being patient!

**28**

Erik says nothing, ever, of their deeds done in dark corners, and so Raoul leaves the subject closed. Days have pass and Erik will come and go as he pleases. He always does, and Raoul is left to wait. What is disturbing most to the boy is that he does not mind, anymore. He cannot hope to find solace unless Erik is with him, he is a new addiction of a dangerous nature, and only when Raoul is alone does he find his doubts again.

He waits, and waits. What is the blackest night will pass, and Raoul will still wait. He has never waited so much as he has in these dark days, waiting to be found, waiting to die, waiting for change. Things have not seemed to change so much, and yet will never be the same again. He has let Erik past a barrier, and now there is no stopping. He fears seeing his captor again, fears and longs for the chance.

No thoughts batter away at him as do thoughts of Erik, and he stands before one of the many mirrors, and waits. Erik has bruised him again. Across the cheek, and more recently, along his flanks and the insides of his thighs. Along his side. He can still feel the echoes of that touch, at him, on him, around him. So hard, so ferocious, and gentle, and fascinating. He wonders, miserably, if this is what Christine felt... how, once she was free from such an enslaving force, she would never want to return to such chains. Even to save one she loved. Raoul once believed he could learn to die with that, but now he has learned to live with it.

Where he once moved above the world Erik rules, he has been dragged ever downward, beside him, and where he will not admit he wants to be. Beneath him. Beneath all.


	29. 29

Um, as promised, porn. I edited it myself, and when I do that I tend to mentally correct mistakes without actually correcting them, so if I missed anything, sorry! Gah! Thanks for reading! Sex is on the way, here's another teaser.

**29**

Dark moments in dark halls. Raoul lives for them, and it has brought him to this moment.

"Wait," Raoul breathes, and as Erik passes he does the unthinkable: catches him by the arm of his coat, and it takes immeasurable amounts of courage not to release it and cower when Erik stares him down. He has been beaten for less, but for some reason does not let go, and instead pulls on the fabric, twisting it around his fingers hard enough to burn and finally move the other man back into the space around him. Erik is not as cold as Raoul expects. The boy is unaware of the expression on his face, but it is not unlike that of the night he was captured: when Erik prowled the stage, stalking his fiancé as prey, and he finally lost her to the undeniable force of Erik's power. His eyes glass with a moisture he cannot even feel, and his mouth is absently parted, and every defense mechanism in his body crying out to him but unable to penetrate his better judgment.

He knows Erik can sense that. The other man, slightly taller in stature and certainly stronger in body, moves in with a furtive, unnatural grace, testing the waters and its boundaries, hovering above Raoul and looking him over with coolly. A barrier of heat sparks between them, in the half-light of the dim den, and what remains of the candles cast a dark yellow light on the figures around them. Faces are half shadowed.

Dark moments in dark hallways, the loneliest stretches of time resides in the distance between them. It is fear, and wondering, and wondering, and fearing what Erik will decide to do with him. Raoul licks his lips, an unconscious decision, and his eyes rest on the bow of his tormenters mouth. Even with the edge of a mask pressing onto the upper lip, it is fascinating and beautiful, so different from the dainty soft lips of a woman, and that is where the excitement lies in Raoul. They are so close already, somehow having moved so slow and so far in only a matter of seconds. Raoul only has to tilt his head, slightly, hardly a movement at all, and they meet in a brief, soundless kiss. Another.

Erik has spoken more than once, whether with hateful animosity or on the edge of murderous anger, of the beauty he finds in Raoul, and when he kisses the younger man they are soft, testing, exploring kisses. The act is a new territory for both of them, dangerous, these dark kisses, and even so Raoul forces himself to stop watching the movements of Erik's mouth and lets his eyes close. They sting, and Erik's hand comes to palm his cheek, icy fingers warming as they snake through his hair, to his brow. A thumb faintly traces the rise of Raoul's high cheekbone, and soft, prickly shivers move across his skin, over his scalp, and with more control from Erik comes a deeper kiss, an open mouth, goading, a hot, crushing tongue against his, at his bottom lip.

Raoul's hands instinctively travel to the other man's black waistcoat, seeing just how far he can slip a hand between the material and the heat of Erik's torso before being stopped. Erik tenses at the foreign entry, but he does not break away, and Raoul's hand moves further into his clothing, into the white undershirt. He feels the muscle quiver beneath his palm, and Raoul suppresses a rush of excitement at the reaction. He ends the kiss, and Erik turns his head away to catch his breath, unwilling to make eye contact when there is still heat between them, and the boys hands are on his skin.

Raoul steps closer, so their bodies are almost touching save for the angle of his arm, and effortlessly the younger man extricates his hand from the disheveled tangle of buttons and fabric. Erik exhales, a sign of what Raoul takes to be disappointment. He is grateful Erik cannot feel his arousal pressing into the front of his trousers, as the Phantom would most certainly take advantage of it.

Erik is new to the touch of another, even another man, and as overbearing as he is, he will still quail at such a force. His body is more sensitive than most, with an innate sexual power that sends every touch, every thrust, or grind, every slide to the highest degree of sensation. Raoul likes that it forces him to respond to Raoul almost as weakly as Raoul responds to the power of those hands. He imagines them, for perhaps the one hundredth time, recalling Erik's palm and strong fingers around him, ripping pleasure from his agonizingly aroused body. He felt trapped beneath those hands, a lovely sense of fear. Trapped, and protected.

Erik, however, does not wish to feel trapped, as he is not like the boy, who finds secret thrill in the form of surrender. When Raoul's fingers breach the waist of his trousers, Erik stops, freezes, but does not pull away. He is so close Raoul feels his lips move against his temple. "Vicomte," only one word, but a warning. Danger lingers in the space of what was not said, and Raoul stops, and hesitates. The material keeps his hand pinned neatly in place, his thumb just at the indention of Erik's navel. He does not remove it. Instead Raoul moves in, into Erik's space, his aura, into the heat surrounding him, and lets his face lean into the warm skin of Erik's neck. What sounds like a low, involuntary groan rises deep from the other man's chest. Another warning, perhaps, Raoul does not care.

His palm slides further, past the edge of the dress shirt, and presses into Erik's lower abdomen, not down but inward, flexing his fingers to kneed the muscles leading to the junction of his legs. Erik is very hard, Raoul can feel him pressing into the left side of his hip. He presses harder, and Erik's breath catches shallow in his throat, and he seizes the younger man's bicep with strong fingers, sharp, another warning. A last warning.

"No," his voice has lost all melodious grace and drops to a flat snap. Raoul is stubborn, and he jerks against the grip to push past that barrier. Almost his entire forearm is shoved into the front of Erik's black pants, scraping against the material uncomfortably, but it is worth the minimal pain to hear the Phantom stagger a gasp through gritted teeth. He thrusts into the loosely fisted hand before his brain can command his body to still. He moves into Raoul's lean frame, half to menace an unspoken threat but also for support. His arm encircles Raoul from behind, shaking, and pulls him closer. Fingers tangle in his hair and pull, but Raoul is resilient. "Get out," his words are clipped, teeth clenched, but Raoul's free hand snakes to the belt, and unbuckles it with impatient fingers.

Erik does not stop him. He holds onto Raoul, tightly, and his breathing is short and, from what Raoul can sense, nervous. It occurs to the boy that Erik has never had another's hands on him quite like this, and he cannot believe he did not consider such a thing before now. It is why Erik cannot seem to stop him, though every instinct revolts, and why he is hardly able to manage his control. Raoul does not speak of it, or anything, and he lets the buttons pop open, freeing his hand and using his other to take a solid hold on Erik. He is tense, so tense Raoul can feel his muscles quivering beneath the cage of skin, a frightening strength fighting to hold back, locked and trembling. His temperature has risen so high his scent becomes thick in Raoul's awareness.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he is going too far, but Raoul cannot care at this point in the game. No more playing around, the game is over. He will push as far as necessary to take some of his own back, and while he is not as rough as Erik was – is – to him, he is still unkind with his movements. In a last, desperate attempt, Erik's hands clamp onto him, into his shirt, and dig painfully in.

"Enough," he hisses. "Enough."

Raoul shakes his head, and turns slightly, so that his cheek is almost beside the Phantom's, skin on skin, and his lips move against Erik's ear. "You don't have to look at me," he says, hotly, with a note of defiance he can certainly expect to be hit for. Erik only swears breathless revenge, and digs into Raoul's back and side, not stopping him, but instead lowering them both to the ground. He is forcing, and Raoul does not mind being forced. He bends his knees, both bodies shaking as they come to a steady position on the rocky ground, carefully, completely. Raoul keeps his hands where they are, in the heat below Erik's waist, and the other man allows for more movement by moving a knee on the other side of Raoul's hips, and between Raoul's legs. The top of his thigh brushes past Raoul's hardness, and he bites back a cry, reminded of his own need for release. He ignores it, for now, and lets Erik straddle him.

Erik has a habit of crushing Raoul when all else fails for control, and the boy keeps his hand jerking quickly, speedily, but roughly enough to keep Erik's jaws clenched together, and a muscle leaps alongside the line. Erik's eyes are screwed closed, mouth tight. He is concentrating, and moving with Raoul's hand, keeping in the rhythm of the hand pressed to the side of his hip for support, and around him. Groans do not escape his tight throat, and when they do they are growls, quick and short, until Erik has to open his mouth to suck in a breath.

The heat they generate is unfathomable, wonderful, thick, and sweat dampens the hair falling in pieces before Raoul's eyes. Erik lowers, and lowers, until he is rigid atop Raoul, his slicked cheek pressed into the Vicomte's hair, his hips so hard, digging into Raoul's, and into his hand. Raoul only wishes he could see Erik's face, still masked, trying to hold onto dignity. It would be a delicious sight, but he can only imagine it, and he works all the harder, harder, and arches his back, pressing his own erection into Erik's, hand crushed between them. Raoul is so hard he can barely stand it, but he keeps going, and a cry forces out of Erik as he contracts, finally, spilling hot white over Raoul's curled fist, over, and it seeps into the space between them as he removes himself slowly to allow Erik's collapse.

Shaking thighs and arms can no longer support his weight, and Erik gives out, panting, heaving, gulping air and running his trembling hands through his own dark hair to regain composure. His voice comes through in those wheezing breaths, a moan here, there, and Raoul waits patiently, lavishing every note and still holding onto Erik. His body is relaxed now, more so than it has ever felt. Raoul likes it that way, when it can loosen, and mold into his, unrestrained by anger, or pride, or vanity. He loves the feel of Erik's shifting weight, as the warmth leaves his now worn body.

Erik inhales again, slower, and he raises off the ground, slightly. He roughly cups the side of Raoul's face and places a firm kiss on the line of his jaw, a softer one just above, and a brief, barely tangible peck on Raoul's lips, swollen from exertion. He remains there a moment, eyes closed, breathing through his nose, and finally comes to stand. Erik turns away before he removes his mask to blot at sweat, or tears, or something, and stiffly departs where Raoul knows he cannot follow.

Raoul curls into a half-crouch, and lets his knees come to the ground, pressing his own hand to his cheek and still feeling the sting of Erik's mouth, the drag of teeth along his stubbled jaw. He shakes his head, and brushes both hands hard on the tops of his thighs. He smells thickly of Erik, all over him, around in. In his clothing. It is strange, to say the least. He has smelled of Erik before, after a fight, or an argument turned out of his favor, but never so heavy as now.

Raoul wonders if Erik is watching. He hopes not, as he gingerly slides his hand into his own trousers, seeking relief. He wonders if Erik will even return.


	30. 30

Woo. Two in two days, and they aren't drabbles. Sheesh, I need a cigarette.

Addressing the current status of the non-defining plot chapters: because it is slash, even porn has a purpose. Quite frankly, and I get on my friends about this, I can't stand plot-what-plot. My porn (if it is indeed delivered. bleh. Ever have one of those days?) is a character advancement. However, after this, the plot is going to get sticky and ... well, that's my blabbing for today. Thanks for reading!

**30**

Erik did return, but not until hours after Raoul had taken a bath, changed his clothing, and crawled into the swan bed for sleep. He has not found it, not even in this darkness Erik has created for the preservation of them both. It is impossible for even Erik to look around and see what lies in the midst of the sacred silence. He never sleeps around Raoul, much less in the same bed, but there is such an unnatural tenderness about him at this hour that Raoul does not feel threatened as he should. He lies on his side, with his back curved into the front of Erik. He cannot see, but he senses Erik's presence somewhat risen off the bed, propped on an elbow perhaps, and with the other hand absently explores the landscape of the younger man's body.

Bruises sprinkle the skin, and when Erik's fingers run across the slightly-softer flesh, still in their rainbow cycle, he presses down, into it. He likes hearing the shift in Raoul's breathing, the subtle little half-note that stops in his throat when Erik inflicts such a mindless, faintly present pain. More so does he love the feel of Raoul relaxing against him, when Erik abandons one bruise for another and trusts him not to prod the others, though he knows Erik will. Perhaps he enjoys being betrayed, Erik does not entirely know. He wonders what it would be to find out.

His fingers are finally warm rather than icy, and he trails them along Raoul's shoulder, down his arm, and over the stretch of his well-muscled flank. He quivers, beneath Erik's fingertips, and the Phantom flattens it to a palm, reposed and lacking all the powerful cruelty his hands are capable of. He lowers himself resignedly into the sheets, head on the pillow with his mask lifted away, and moves forward to press his lips to the dark honey hair. His fingers curve around the jut and indention of Raoul's hipbone. There is an even larger bruise there, he can feel; evidence of his abuse.

Animosity that seems ages old now still eats at him, and fuels the abuse, but there is a part of him somewhere beneath that does not enjoy hurting Raoul nearly as he once did. He is so young, a boy hardly in his twenties, barely breaching past manhood. There is a deeper sympathy in Erik, one he has repressed since the first days of Raoul's abandonment: the younger man is not entirely unlike himself. He, too, was left to die by the woman he loved. There is no emptier feeling in all the world, no loneliness or misery to compare to being unwanted. It is a pain Erik understands.

Raoul is not asleep, he knows, as he tucks his hair from his neck and runs his fingers through it, over the skin just behind Raoul's ear and the nape of his neck. Raoul shivers, and in response Erik circles an arm around his front to pull him closer than before, sharing what little warmth is left in his body with one he continues to hurt. It is the least the worn body of the Vicomte deserves, as compared to a hard kiss on the temple, and leaving him on the floor with his own, painful arousal. Erik holds back a smirk. The young man was very brave today, and that is all the reason that keeps him here tonight. He may never be so tender again.

There is a sadness in these after hours, and it lingers around them like the storm in a sky Raoul has not seen in almost a year. He has changed since then. He wishes they were elsewhere, anywhere, and it sickens him that he wants them together. He wants Raoul beside him, just as this, silent and tired and weary of a day well spent.

Erik may even begin to like him, and not only because he is particularly skilled with his hands. He has a defiance to him, a determination to continue. Every scowl, every glare, every indignant aversion of his eyes drives a strange point into Erik, an attraction, and a desire to protect. If there was a ghost of a half smile on Erik's face, it melts away when he remembers Christine.

Raoul's hand covers his own, and Erik resists the urge to recoil. He lets Raoul continue to touch him; a warm palm over his forearm.

He breathes Raoul in. "I'll destroy you," he murmurs, a dry statement, empty. Raoul stirs. "I will. I have. I've taken the fight from your soul. I've taken your worth and traded it for your life. Your peace of mind," Erik exhales. "I will be your end, as I was hers." He rolls away from Raoul, flat on his back in the surrounding softness, and absently traces the white contours of his mask. It is there, all the time. "Don't you see how I don't want you."

Raoul rustles in the sheets, but Erik can hardly see what he is doing. He shakes his head. "I'm all that's here, in this hole in the ground. You're all that's here. We can't go back up there because things will never be the same," Raoul lifts his neck in the darkness, and his eyes catch an unseen light source, reflecting brief pale blue. He gazes into their black canopy. "To stay down here is to waste away," Raoul lowers back down, and Erik can see the outline of a sharp profile, the straight nose, the angle of those soft lips as they move with his speech. "I'm wasting away, I think. You said I was mad, maybe it's true," Raoul blinks, and swallows hard with a dry throat. "Why should I want you here like I do... you were never my angel of music, I was never bound to you." Erik wonders if that is true. "I must be mad. There is no other reason."

Erik remains uncomfortable in the silence, and he sits slowly up, catching Raoul's attention. Enough affection for one night, the boy has had more than he needs. Erik sparks with irritation as he feels a hand in the crook of his elbow, stopping his ascent. With one hand, in the cover of darkness, he peels his mask off. It is a long moment before either man speaks.

"Let me go with you," it is an earnest, hollow request, but Erik's mood has taken a bitter turn. He takes his arm back, roughly, from Raoul's fingers. "Don't leave me down here, take me with you," he says, but Erik stands, and pushes him back onto the bed.

"I can't," a growl, low and dismissing. He knows his way through the dark as he once again leaves Raoul alone.


	31. 31

**31**

It was there when Raoul awoke this morning, reposed on the desk among the scattered envelopes, so free and open it is as if it wanted to be found. He did not want to read it, at first, as his interest was elsewhere and Erik's wrath would be swift if he found the boy meddling, but it was the name at the top of the peeking yellow note that caught his eye. Addressed, formally. It is to his father.

Now he swears he can hear the silent clock in the background, ticking, booming the quiet to heavy pieces. The note sits at his feet, torn in half and not forgotten as easily as he would like. He tries to, and the more he tries, the more it will not go away. From the contents of the message he gathers that correspondence has been continuing for some time now. Talk of the young man's condition, various graceful threats, and negotiations for his ransom.

Raoul is ambivalent, and it leaves him out of place, physically awkward and uncomfortable. His mouth is dry, his throat sticky. He cannot decide on a feeling. Is he angry? Is this quickening of his pulse, the throbbing of his veins, the hollow ache in his stomach, the flushed heat of his face and nerves, is it all a result of anger? Erik has lied to him, kept things from him, that is to be expected. Erik is ransoming him and letting him go, ultimately.

Is that happiness? Erik will leave him. It will be over. The world will rush back, the sky and its burning idol, the sun, all at once. Raoul should be excited, relieved, overcome with grievous joy, but he can barely bring himself to look at the note. He yearns for a more fitting end. Something more than this.


	32. 32

**32**

The lair seems smaller since the discovery of the note. Illusions that have kept Raoul in the trance linger in translucent indecision, and he can hardly decide if they hold on their own, or if he is the one still desperate enough to hold them up. The prospect of escape has opened his eyes, and he almost prefers to be blind. He thinks now, eats, drinks, sleeps, dwells on that note, and it does not ease. It will not, and until Erik returns Raoul will pace, and chew on his fingernails, fidgeting, and sending restless glances over to the cluttered table.

There is a sound of displaced air, perhaps that of a passageway closing, and Raoul waits for Erik, holding his breath for the moment the dark figure passes through the curtains. He is silent and brooding, as always, masked and untouchable. Raoul watches him from beneath drawn brows, and Erik only hints at a half smile. Mirthless, unpleasant. Raoul feels naked, like there is nothing he can hide from the other man, or ever truly could.

Erik knows, of course he does. He knows everything, and does not even acknowledge his violated work area as he passes it. He is entirely unaffected by the stricken look on Raoul's face, and Raoul begins to wonder why he ever thought he could affect anything the Phantom is, or feels. He removes his dress coat, and makes no sound, standing erect and smoothly hanging it on the coat rack beside the desk. He raises his brow at the young man.

"You've been in my study," he finally says, barely grazing him with a steel glance, and Raoul sinks when Erik turns away from him again. He hates always speaking to Erik's back. "I take it you did not like what you found."

Raoul snorts, indignant, disgusted, and laces his shirt up, tight, quick, anything to occupy his hands. He dares another pace forward. "How long have you been torturing my parents?" he snaps, and keeps emotion out of his demand. "Dangling my life out of their reach, how long!" No answer. Raoul shakes with rage. "Are you going to keep your word, and return me to-" The world? It won't come, and Raoul bites out the second best. "- to up there?"

A graceful shrug of despicable indifference. "Would you have my honest answer?"

Raoul clenches his teeth to keep his tongue at bay, and pushes down the rise of anger. It is hot, swelling inside him. "Always," he grits.

Erik, for once perhaps, levels with his captive. He is quiet a moment, face fixed in consideration, and finally, "It has been some time," he answers, honest and simple. There is no lie in his tone. "Since she left me here, to rot, as you say. I considered all I have left to me, and came to see the cure to my madness. An eye flicks to Raoul. "That is you." Raoul is holding his breath, and realizes it. Something inside him leaps, and he only frowns, unwilling to betray it. He wonders if he is still blind, even as Erik's horrible mouth will not twist into a foul smile of any sort. His face remains frozen as stone. "I realized all I needed to depart Paris was here, in you. In case it has escaped your notice, you are exceedingly rich, Vicomte, and your family has offered me - among their colorful threats - any desired amount in exchange for your life, and your freedom."

Raoul listens. He wishes he were deaf, and his breath exhales hard through his nostrils, and a muscle twitches in his tightly clenched jaw. Erik gives no reaction, save a very, very slow smile. "With this city behind me, I will go back into the world."

Raoul tilts his head. "The world won't take you," he says, hotly. "The world made very clear how much of you they are willing to tolerate. It cast you out." Only a smirk, soft and dangerous, silent and cruel, plays an ugly path across his mouth before it drops. A slight inclination of the dark head, and Raoul's scowl deepens. He steps up, fuming. "You're fairly calm, Phantom," he spits the name out. "You're not in the mood to beat me, force more blood from this body? Have you harnessed your temper at last?" Erik says nothing. "Aren't you going to beat me!" Raoul demands again, and his venom earns an arched brow.

"Would you like me to?" Erik asks, quietly. Another warning. "I am not entirely rash, young man, and it has not escaped my consideration."

Raoul is staring, incredulously, afraid of his own answer. He swallows. "What are you going to do with me? I know you'll not keep your word to my parents."

"My dear boy, hold your tongue, or I will cut it out and leave you mute as well as condemned to starvation and madness, do I make myself clear?"

He shakes with rage, nails digging into palms, sweat beading at his brow, throat aching. "So you will rob my father, and mother, of a fortune and a son."

Erik leans forward, onto the organ where the candles used to reside. They are out, and give off no light, but Erik's face is shadowed and horrible as ever it was, even with the ivory mask on one side. "Raoul," he says, softly. "How did you think this would end? What were you expecting, hoping for?" he straightens, and rakes a critical gaze over Raoul's frail frame. "So you have removed my mask, as so many others before you. In your mind you have breached me, but only in your mind. So you now realize that you do not truly want what you thought you did, now that the world has a bigger part to play in your future. You mean, desperately, not to offend it. You hide your shame, Vicomte, so, so poorly."

Raoul backs up, and averts his eyes, hot and glassy with chagrin. He burns with shame, and embarrassment. The truth penetrates so well, and he cannot fight it as he cannot fight the prickle of unshed tears, of shame, such shame. He is no longer blind, and shamefully knows he still wants. Erik sees it, and he narrows his eyes, hateful slits. "Look at you," he breathes, a scolding father. "Such dirty hands behind your back, little boy. Come," his voice is now a whisper, gentle, so cruel. "Do not be so childish. You are a man now. We all know what we are." Erik turns, and before disappearing behind the black curtains he picks up the note, and slides it into its envelope. Erik vanishes.

Raoul wants to cry, but not for Erik. Never for the Phantom, never. He nervously tucks his hands behind the small of his back and twists them into his shirt, anything to occupy them. Such shame is this, the stains on his hands. He cannot hide them, not even from himself.


	33. 33

**Author's Note:** This thing is going to take a break until after March 15th, because I have a deadline in which my novel has to be finished. Thank you all for reading, and I promise some good stuff after said date. Thanks for your encouragement, and let me know if I get these two OOC. :D

**33**

Erik has returned, and appears to be packing. Not even what could be called packing, as he is only putting things away. When Erik leaves he will leave everything behind, tucked and hidden so as not to be ruined by the dust and age of his lair. Raoul can only watch, idle, sick with boredom, and the hollow feeling of being one forgotten. Erik gives him no attention, it is as if he no longer exists, again, and he can only do his best to stay out of the Phantom's way. It is ridiculous to feel this, all of this, and yet he can hardly remember what came before it.

Worse, perhaps the worst of all, are the glances he keeps sending Erik's way. He cannot stand them but they keep coming back, and thoughts begin forming that he can't destroy. Wishes for closeness, to feel again, the things Erik can pull up out of him. He hates the thought of losing that closeness, and so hates Erik. He can only watch.

"Could I ever go back to her," Raoul asks, quietly, to no one in particular. He only sits on the ground, by the organ, and stares forward. So many things pass between them, unspoken, things Raoul has changed into and refuses to admit, though the truth leaves him bare. Erik, again, will not even look at him. The man folds several thick brushes into a piece of cloth, and silently places them inside one of the big trunks. Christine's portrait is still marked, and abandoned still where they left her. Raoul lets his head drop against the side of the massive instrument. "If by chance you were to keep your word, I mean. Could I ever..." Raoul searches for words that will not come, and he touches his temples with feeble fingers. "Could I ever...touch her... again?"

His broken sound earns a reaction from his captor. Erik tenses, and a cold seems to settle around them that heightens the silence and stills the air. He closes the lid of the trunk, hard, and the wood smacks an echo around the cavern. Erik pulls the lock, and latches it down.

"What you do when I am gone is no concern of mine," he says. "Starve, die. Live – scratch at the earth until you find the sun, burn my Opera to the ground. Go back to her," Erik regards him, sardonic, apathetic, and seeing. "Whatever it takes to forget."

Raoul glances down, to his lap, and knows he will never have the words to bring Erik down as Erik brings him down. It is rather a hopeless situation, but Raoul uncurls wearily to his feet, and leans against the organ, facing Erik, trying to at least seem immune to his disdain. "You lived your life to ruins for her, what else is there left in life for you?"

"Music," Erik says, flatly. "It was there long before she was."

"Where will you go?"

Erik looks at him, daggers, and Raoul thinks he will not get an answer. He runs his hands through his stringy pale hair and turns attention to the tips of his worn shoes. He was not used to having worn shoes up until about four months ago, when it occurred to him just how worn they were. He looks up, and Erik is still staring at him, considering, or looking past him, Raoul doesn't know. The man is so damned unreadable, and unreasonable, and irrational. There is no telling his thoughts as they are written across his face, and stop short at the smooth shape of the ivory mask.

After a moment, Erik gives a single-shouldered shrug, always graceful. Frightening. "England, perhaps," he says, and Raoul is foolish enough to snort. The spark of intrigue in Erik's eyes encourages his insolence, and a rush of anger takes over.

"And what do you expect to find in England?" he snaps, letting his head fall back to regard the rocky ceiling, yellow and gold and full of cracks. "Whores, patrons, life?"

Erik is dangerously quiet. "Liberation," he says evenly.

Raoul exhales, loudly, something that could almost be considered a sigh, and realizes he has no argument left. "Liberation," Raoul agrees. He shakes his head, and once again loses his hold on words. Liberation. He turns, halfway, to look at Erik, and fights the cracking of his voice. He hates his voice. "I can't go back to life, I..." he feels his face heat up at the very thought, and averts his gaze, down, and then up to the gates across the lake. Shame. "The way they would look at me," he whispers, hollow, and presses a palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut to regain control. A shudder runs through him. "They w- she would know. The minute she saw me again, she would know."

Erik only snorts, and makes his way around the organ, gathering stacks of unfinished compositions and neatly ordering them. He doesn't care. He does not care in the least, and it leaves the boy miserable. Raoul turns again, and rubs tears from swollen eyes, laced with red. His lips tremble and he swallows hard, smearing wet from his lashes and away from his cheeks. He catches his nerve. "You're still hurt by her," he says, and his voice manages to walk on the edge of strength. "But she doesn't have hold on you anymore, I know it."

At this Erik laughs, nothing musical, but a horrible crackling, a growl at the bottom of his throat, mocking. Raoul stares at him, burning with mortification, humiliation, and his expression breaks when Erik turns, all teeth showing in the closest thing to a grin Raoul has ever seen on his face. Mirthless and mocking, sheer amusement. He descends the steps, and brushes against Raoul without even looking at him, just behind him.

"And what has hold over you?" he snaps. "Something far worse than an orphaned chorus girl, worse than even a common whore with a heart of gold," beneath the mask, the smile falls flat, and when he turns to face Raoul there is naught but a deep satisfaction, lingering at the corners of his mouth and in the shine-less blue eyes. He takes the small steps to move behind him again, and touches with prodding fingertips the ball of Raoul's shoulder, moving his other hand to his waist. Over the material, against the skin, above the belt. "These hands, this body," Erik is close, his breath is hot on the back of Raoul's neck and sends his skin crawling. Erik lays his right cheek against Raoul's hair, and circles an arm around his collar, breathing him in. "This monster, this mouth."

Raoul's breath is caught in his throat, and against his better judgment he trails his own hand up, wrapping around the thickness of Erik's forearm. Raoul can feel the other man smile, a sinister split of his chiseled features. "Touching me," he breathes, and kisses Raoul's hair, hard. "You cling to what you hate. Such a rare breed you are, Vicomte."

Raoul leans his head back, farther into the crook of Erik's right shoulder until their faces are almost touching. He is torn by murderous anger, and his fingers tighten on Erik's arm, wanting to draw pain and knowing how impossible it would be. "You are a monster," he snaps. "I do hate you. What you stand for, what you do, who you are. I hate _what_ you are." The words fuel Erik's intensity, and his grip tightens on Raoul, and the younger man waits for pain. He leans wholly into Erik, and his breath stays in his chest as a warm hand travels behind his waist, down the small of his back and over the muscle of his backside. Under, between the junction of his thighs, and then Erik moves. He crouches enough to grip the bend of Raoul's knee, from behind.

Raoul snaps his eyes open, and cries out as he is physically lifted off of the ground. He never believed even Erik possessed enough strength, but he had never taken into consideration the idea of being starved to below his health and size. He is hauled away, half-dragged at times, entirely carried at others, to God only knows where. He allows himself to be carted, despite the pain, and the force of Erik. Thankfully he does not move for the lake, but Erik lets Raoul drop onto the swan bed, and with one hand holds him in place as he gathers up the long forgotten chain.

He wordlessly fastens Raoul into place, expressionless. Raoul does not move as he is imprisoned, and with tightly drawn lips and a hot glare he follows Erik's departure with his eyes.

"Take your mask off!" he shouts, deep in his throat, reverberating throughout the entire cave. "It's not what you are, and it cannot hide you!" Erik is gone, even if he did hear Raoul's words, and the boy settles into the mattress, fuming. "You can never hide," he mutters under his breath. "The world will always find you."


	34. 34

**Note:** I do, in fact, realize that it is not the 15th, but I actually finished this afternoon at about four o'clock, so I decided to take a break and get this out. Thanks for reading!

**34**

Raoul waits alone in almost total, black darkness. Erik left, carelessly, and did not replace the burned out candles with fresh wicks. He has watched, one by one, as they all dwindle and die, each death bringing on a little more darkness than there was before. The last candle stands alone on the bedside table, beside the monkey in Persian robes, burning low into a wide spread puddle of thick yellow wax. It dies, and the light only continues to dim further and further. Soon it will only be an ember, and the darkness will swallow it whole. Raoul will be left in the impenetrable black of the underground.

As a boy, the darkness was one of his greatest fears, deathly afraid of what lingered within it, and now, as the flame laps its last few sparks of life, that same fear begins to grip at him again. He quails, slightly, and lowers close into the pillow, away from the soft, gentle clink of the chain and into the sheets. He wishes he could hide beneath them, somewhere in the back of his mind it is all he wants, be he knows Erik will return, and humiliate him for it. He turns his head away, and squeezes his eyes shut to the point of pain, and he knows that when he opens them again it will be completely black. Dark.

Raoul drags in a breath, chest tight, every muscle clenched and burning with instinct to flee. He hates the dark, he hates the dark, and more does he hate being afraid of it. He is entirely held prisoner by such fear, and he hates that. It is nothing to be afraid of, it is nothing but the lack of all things color, the absence of light, that is all that darkness is, and all it is capable of!

"You would be surprised," Erik's voice, and Raoul senses an orange glow behind his closed eyelids. He realizes that he had spoken out loud, and snaps his eyes open, but does not lift off of the pillow. He watches Erik, the whites of his eyes seeming enormous in this light, breathing shallowly. The dark figure has replaced the candles, finally, and he stands at the bed, cloaked, masked, and strangely calm in the soft candlelight. "How many fear the darkness," he says. "And how many more would never find more peace and solace if they only let it in."

Raoul sits up, a tiring effort, and his fetters clink noisily this time, disturbed and agitated against him. He stares at Erik, for a long time, before finally biting out words. "Never leave me in the dark again," he snaps, and Erik ignores the bold command. He moves around the bed, and sits on the edge of it, taking the big chains in his hands and unlocking them. He removes them from Raoul's body, and when they are shed they hit the floor, loud. Raoul only glowers at him, face hot with anger, cheeks pink and lips burning. His eyes feel unfit for their sockets, and Erik only stares back at him, uninviting any challenge Raoul has to offer.

"You came back," he says, quietly. "What has hold over you? Why do you keep coming back?"

Erik snorts, and half-turns, so that the only side of him that Raoul can see is the white plane of his mask, and the sharp profile is still prominent beneath it. "I do not come back," he says, admits, wryly. "I never leave."

Raoul cannot deny he knows as much. Erik never truly leaves him, even if Raoul wishes he does. His presence follows the boy in everything, but Raoul does not want only a presence. He wants a voice, a body, hands, a face. He reaches out, and his fingertips slide up the smooth surface of the mask, and to the brim that rests beside his scattered hairline. Erik does not resist as the mask is peeled off. As if guiltily signing a confession, as if it is the first time Raoul will ever see the repulsive side of him, he lowers his eyes and says nothing. He keeps quiet dignity. Even set among such hideousness, hanging in vines of twisted flesh, Erik's eyes turn to him, hard, bare, crystal sea, and sharp.

"What else could you want?" he asks, voice low, stripped of its captivating power. When Raoul only stares at him, lost for words, he continues. His voice neither rises or falls as he speaks, it maintains the low murmur of one acquainted with solitude like nothing else in the world around him. "There is nothing else you could do to pain me further, Vicomte, I am accustomed to its endless torment. Go on, and tell me what it is, what else you could possibly want, and why, God, why would you ever want it?"

Raoul would love answers to supply Erik with, but none will come. He searches further, and all of his corners are empty. He cannot speak, and so Erik turns away, content to let the boy keep his horror before such wide, glassy eyes. Raoul exhales, hard, and lets his head drop. He leans forward, gently, and sinks toward Erik to rest his cheek against the back of the Phantom's shoulder. He does not know what he wants, or perhaps he only refuses to admit that he does, in fact, know. Raoul closes his eyes, and lifts his head, conscious of how childish he must seem next to this man, who has lived more than he can ever hope to, who possesses so much more strength.

Raoul gathers his courage, and it becomes easier to collect once he has summoned it. He holds to his reserve and palms the smooth side of Erik's face, and moves in to press his lips to the other, just where the cheekbone should have been. Erik tenses, and shuts his eyes hard, drawing in a sharp breath as Raoul's lips pass over his misshapen cheek, with a tenderness no living thing would ever give him. Raoul is closer now, and moves to his temple, cradling his cheek with the other hand and pressing his mouth to just above his brow. He pulls back, and Erik is looking on at him, deciding.

What is he is trying to decide, Raoul does not know nor does he care. He senses Erik is too sick with exhaustion to fight him, and so he takes the Phantom's face in both hands, one side smooth, the other textured and twisted beneath his calloused fingers. Why? Raoul cannot find an answer that can be properly. They watch one another in silent regard, and Raoul finally releases Erik, leaving him ambivalent and breathless in his wake. He moves away from the other man, turning back onto the bed, and lies on his side to face away from Erik. He presses the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, and shuts out the light.

"Why?" he voices the question again, to himself, and to make Erik stay. "I don't know why. I do know that there is a side of you that you smother. You enjoy killing it, keeping it silent in its suffering, but it is more beautiful than... anything I have ever- felt, or wanted to feel, or see." Raoul draws in a breath, and lets it out again, letting his body relax, and giving in to his own words. "All you can do is hate, and weep when others hate you back. It's the ...entirety of your perfection you can't see, and the master of your genius. Your - this face can only fight that for so long before all the majesty you possess defeats it, and leaves bare only the truth."

Erik says nothing. He turns his head back to his own space, eyes dropping to the floor beneath his feet. Beside him he feels Raoul breathing, rising and falling in the mattress, and he can feel the tremor of Raoul's shaking body.

"Now that you've heard all you need from me," Raoul's voice is quiet, barely audible. He pulls in another shaking breath. "You can leave. Go on. I won't ask to follow."

The cavern is silent as a grave. Erik lifts his head, and does not look behind him. "Vicomte?" Raoul gives a noncommittal grunt, and Erik feels the ghost of a wry half-smile tug at the corner of his lips. "You should have been a writer."


	35. 35

**Author's Note: **Here it is, teh sex. I know everyone either wants to kill me for making them wait so long, or kill me for keeping it not entirely graphic, but I do have a reason for that. The reason being that I'm not here to write out lessons in how to make love in a same sex relationship if you're a man, that's not the point of the fic. I always try, whenever I write sex scenes, to leave out any specific words and beat around the... shrub. Besides, there's nothing particularly "hot" about literally spelling out for the readers 'tab A into slot B', hopefully we all know how this works. If you don't, and you're still reading this... run away and write an apology letter to your mother. You're too young. Anyway, enough blabbage. Thanks for being a great audience to write for. :D!

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**35**

It is dark now, completely dark. Raoul is blind and his trust lies entirely in Erik's hands. Although it hurts so much he can hardly move with Erik's body he still holds onto it, grasping, for dear life, and says nothing of the pain. He bites his lip and swears he can taste blood, metallic, copper, mixing with the taste of Erik's bare shoulder as he presses his cheek to it in an attempt to keep steady. Salt, and blood, and sweat – every time Raoul is rocked against the frame of the bed an involuntary grunt is forced from his lungs, a note higher than his voice, strained from the pain. It is pain like nothing else, and Raoul would otherwise have done everything in his power to stop Erik's advancing, but below the surface of the strange, afflictive new feeling of penetration is entirely different. Raoul begins to like it, does not like it but needs it, a deep hunger for more despite Erik's force, and it rises and higher with every thrust. He even begins to want more of Erik's force.

In the dark they are mostly naked, pressed hard into one another, no space between them, save for more than a few seconds at a time when Erik pulls back to move in. Raoul is tense and clinging to Erik's body, thighs clenched and tremoring as they dig into his sides. Erik's trousers are open and still lingering at the bottom of his hips, and they slip further down every time they hit the backs of Raoul's bent knees. Their skin is hot, and sticky, slicked with sweat and molded together. Erik thrusts, again, and again, and Raoul feels the sharp pain begin to dull into only rhythmic pressure.

Because of their position, and his face buried into the comforting crook of Erik's neck and shoulder, he cannot see Erik's face as he works, and for that he is grateful. In the dark it is impossible to distinguish between sweat and tears. They are forced from his body, like the gasps, the occasional slip of Erik's name from his throat, and he has no will to keep them inside. The difficulty increases as Raoul loses tension and loosens, as Erik may go further, deeper, and faster. His bucks become harder, but not beyond his own control. Erik has managed to hold onto that and not tear Raoul entirely apart, but there is only so much that can keep his frightening strength at bay.

Fingers, splayed and rigid, dig hard into his flanks, and Raoul keeps his teeth clamped firmly on his lip. With every jerk of his body, with every drive of Erik's hips he catches a glimpse of what keeps him going, and it spreads through his lower body like wildfire. Even as lashes of pleasure rip through him, bringing him closer, the tears still sting his eyes. He cries silently for reasons he cannot even find to cry for. Perhaps it is the finality surrender from everything he knows to this deviance. A threshold has been broken, and now everything will change. Everything has changed, and what is to come, misery, loneliness, or even the smallest touch of contentment is completely and utterly unknown to Raoul.

Erik fails to bite back a sharp cry, and the sound of his voice brings Raoul swiftly into the moment again. He feels the quailing of contraction, and his cheek leaves Erik's shoulder as his head falls back onto the pillow, turning to the side while his last bit of resolve is shattered piece by piece with every buck of Erik's hips. He holds on, one moment, another, and Erik only drives harder into him. He breaks, and when he comes, a hot white mess that spreads over his belly, Raoul releases a deep sob from the bottom of his throat. He drains almost completely, and his arms around Erik slacken.

Erik is not far behind, but he acknowledges Raoul's reaction by moving one of his hands bracing the younger man's hips to stab his fingers through Raoul's damp hair in a strange affectionate gesture, palm against his temple. He is so close now that Raoul can feel him shaking, hard, and though he is greatly fatigued he moves his knees higher, thighs clenched to the point of a burning ache. Erik takes back his hand and grasps his hips again, bucking hard and sinking far into Raoul. Control is lost. He groans, and Raoul feels him come, slower than he did, in long pulses that earns him a single slower thrust before Erik finishes. He lets go the breath he was holding, and Raoul does as well, relieved Erik is moving out of him. He was not certain how much more he had left to give.

Erik ducks his chin, eyes still closed as he catches his breath, swallowing hard and reaching back with one hand to pull his trousers back loosely over his hips. Unexpectedly, in an act of utmost respect, Erik carefully lifts off of Raoul and lays heavily beside him. He has made a point of not collapsing on him.

In the darkness they lie side by side, chests heaving, dragging in gulps of air. Beside the sound of their strained breathing, and the rhythmic beating of hearts in their chests, the black around them is silent and serene. Raoul's face is slicked with sweat, and tears of shame and fear of change, tepid air clinging to the beads on his brow. The heat of his craving for Erik's rapacity leaves his body, and pain stays behind.

From his shoulders to the plates of his knees he hurts, and the burning of locked muscles fade and dwindle into a dull, sleepy ache. A light chill descends with the departing heat, and the concentrated pain in his hips throbs into his awareness. It hurts when he moves his legs, and so he rests them back on the mattress and decides to wait for another time. He calms, finally, drawing in a long breath and releasing it, slowly.

Erik sounds as if he has reached that stage as well, but a tremor still disturbs the wave of his breath.

Silence. Raoul picks up a stir in the lulling sound of Erik's breathing, and his weight on the bed moves, shifts away from Raoul. A familiar sense of what almost feels like panic strikes deep inside him, and he realizes he can no longer see the outline of Erik's lean frame in the dark. Blindly he stretches a hand out and grasps empty space, but persists, moving over a little and grimacing. Pain restricts almost his entire lower half, and he cries out, as he falls to one elbow, bent across the mattress. His sweat-slicked fingers find the only thing they can grab, the waist of Erik's trousers.

His hiss of obvious discomfort ceases Erik's departure, but he does not return to Raoul.

"Don't you dare leave me now," Raoul rasps, and his voice cracks, hoarse with misuse. "Not after-"

"Not after what?" Erik snaps, still breathless, but his flat tone makes up for the unsteady waver in his voice. "Hurting you? Battering away at you until you fall to pieces beneath me?"

His weight upon the bed does not leave, but his voice turns to a growl, and he leans toward Raoul with a menacing countenance. Raoul can sense weakness, but he quails back onto the bed, and Erik's hands come to grip him at his sides, fingers covering each new bruise perfectly. Raoul is too sore to press his knees back together, and for a brief moment he fears Erik might have him again before he has time to recover. He wishes his own trousers were not somewhere by the foot of the bed so he could pull them on, and feel less vulnerable before the Phantom. Erik's hands are still warm, and sticky with sweat on his flanks. After a moment he is released, violently, and with disgust. Erik snorts. "And the monster has broken his toy," Erik mutters. He is bitter.

Raoul watches him turn away again, and all the affection that had welled inside him is gone in a half-second. In this empty quiet he wants answers. "I'm more than that," he snaps. "To you, I'm more, don't deny it."

He has taken a risk with his bold words, though Raoul's courage comes only from the fact that Erik has been quite lenient with him lately. Raoul feels relief settle on him when Erik makes no attempt to deny it, and a pregnant pause hangs between them.

Then, quietly, "You never leave my thoughts," Erik admits. It is as if he is almost tired of feeding Raoul only his animosity. "Never, even before, when I still watched and waited for her. I can taste you on my lips, in my mouth, I smell you all over me. I cannot stand it," his tone rises. "I want to beat you senseless, give you up, but I cannot do that. Not now. All I could possibly do is leave you, as she left me here." Erik snorts, a wry laugh, void of all mirth or amusement. "All the things I do to you," he murmurs, distantly. "How you must hate me."

"I do hate that you can't trust," Raoul says, hotly, and flicks his gaze into the dark shape of Erik's profile. "Don't think that you're the only one of us to fear what we have become," he gingerly lifts himself to sit up again, with effort, and Erik turns his head halfway in the direction of his voice. "Don't make me become it alone."

"Alone," Erik repeats, softly. "Do not feign ignorance, Vicomte. In the end we are only ever alone." Raoul says nothing, only counts the moments before Erik takes his leave and once again deserts him, hollow and naked in the blackest night to wait. Instead, the Phantom simply leans to his right, lifting the soft blankets and moving beneath them. He holds them up, and Raoul frowns at the gesture, uncertain.

A moment passes. Erik will only wait so long. Raoul silently crawls under, still tender and sore from their excursions, and lies on his side next to Erik. The blankets drape over his frame, and he does not hesitate to lean his back into the warm body behind him. Stillness, nothing, until an arm encircles his waist, and settles there. Before Raoul falls asleep, before his exhaustion finally sinks him into surrender, he distantly realizes that the manner of Erik's touch has changed. There is a different feel to it, the grace of his weight across Raoul's body, the respect. It is familiar. In Erik's touch there is acceptance at last, and Raoul comes to realize he no longer fears it.


	36. 36

**Author's Note:** Yes, I know, all these late posts... I can't help it, these are my peak hours. I'm gonna note real quick that this is almost over, I promise. It's gone on for a while, but that was all in a desperate attempt to make plausible slash. Sometimes you have to walk a mile to... yeah, I'm not good at metaphors. Thanks, again, for all your encouraging and constructive reviews!

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**36**

Raoul thinks that Erik cannot possibly show affection past a certain degree, especially during what he assumes to be the long hours of the day. It is highly unlikely to Raoul that Erik was given any love as a child, and therefore is almost incapable of producing that which he never received. It is simply against his nature to give the kind of affection that Raoul is used to, but that does not mean Erik is not affectionate. These days he carries the same dark grace about him, and Raoul imagines he will never see a smile on Erik's face that is not laced with wry bitterness.

He speaks to Raoul now, not as a captor to his captive, or a hunter to a young pup, but as a man to another man. This, of course, does not mean his words go without mockery, as Erik shall always hold contempt for every man until the end of his days.

Raoul is still very sore, keeping a ginger walk, and so Erik has not made any advances. For that he is grateful. In mid night he will wake up to the feel of Erik's weight in the bed, and the same comfort of a possessive arm still encircles his waist. Erik's nose buried in his hair, a toned body behind his, rising in gentle rhythms with the breaths he takes in. These things Raoul has come to find solace in, and on nights when Erik does not come, or is late, he cannot sleep. He knows that nothing will ever compare to what they felt on that first night. Years may pass before he sees it again.

Erik has made no mention of leaving. It is almost as if the cruel words he spit out two weeks earlier were never spoken. He might stay, Raoul thinks, and at last things may finally come to change.

What the boy cannot know is Erik's condition in actuality. He does not realize that his words have not breached what the Phantom can only ever believe, and in the long hours of the day Erik has seemingly forgotten of his plans to depart. He does nothing, save sit in one of the back chambers, hidden away from the world and Raoul. It is a sparsely furnished room, with only a great master armchair in one corner, and his largest mirror at the opposite wall. It takes up almost the entirety of that wall, so that his reflection stares back at him from every position in the room. He cannot hide from it, because he built it that way.

Erik sits across from it and hates. Erik hates with every fiber of his being, and can hate as no other can hate. He broods for hours, in the chair, legs crossed, and mask discarded by the mirror. He hates because of this new blood he has tasted, not the thrill of murder, not the age old procession of unrequited love, but happiness. With the boy, dark in the nights, there is someone for him and it is like nothing else he has ever felt. Memories, distant, buried inside, of when he knew what it was to be happy: the days of his early childhood, when innocence still lingered and not even he truly knew what he was.

This is not meant to last and he knows it, not here, not in this private hell. When Raoul comes to see that he will never see the sun again he will become sick with an ever growing hatred. He will turn on Erik, and find a way to escape, do anything to escape.

Even if Raoul were to want to stay they could never go into a world with light, and live as other men do. They could never just be. The world will always find them, and even Raoul knows it to be true.

And Erik knows there is no other reason but the one that stares back at him. Erik stands, mouth set, eyes hard and clouded with an unspeakable rancor. He approaches the mirror and regards in silence the makings of his face. He will do this for hours at times, but now he only touches the textured rise of flesh beneath his right eye, and down the cheek. Such a twisted shape, tormented with uneven skin, and lashed with discolored streaks and patches. His cheek bone is taught as if he had suffered horrible burns as a child, and the skin pulls downward to expose the white of his eye.

It is hideous, the face of a monster. Such a monster.

"Look at you," he whispers to his reflection. "This is you," Erik is hollowed out, his voice skeletal, faint and repulsed. "It is all you will ever be, to him, to anyone." If Raoul is to be released, Erik will never change. If Erik stays, Raoul will never find freedom. He is not like Erik. Erik has learned to live without the sun. He will be destroyed. One of them must be.

He lays his palm against the entire half of his face, and curls his fingertips into the flesh, a bruising grip. His teeth grit, there is pain, but he can ignore it. He always has.

"Why can you not change," he asks, a growl, a sorrow, an echo that has never died away from the first time his mother asked the same of him. His reflection cannot reply, and Erik does not wait for it. He reaches to the side, and draws the long curtain across the mirror. Before it is shut off from the room, he uncovers his face, and studies it a moment more, as if he could ever forget it. "You," he breathes. "I hate above all else."


	37. 37

**Author's Note:** This is the 3rd to last. The End is Near, I promise. Thanks for all the support!

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**37**

Erik enters the main lair with his usual grace, soundless, and allows the curtain to fall behind him. To anyone from the outside, the underground air would come as warm and choking, but Erik takes in the dusty musk as a breath of air he has right to breathe. It brings him back home, into comfort, and he is able to exhale and relax his posture, though he stands as straight as ever even on his own. Beneath one of his arms, partially hidden under the black of his dress coat, is a long rectangular box, and he carries it with little effort. Past the swan bed and up into the room of the organ, the candles still glow gently in dim light.

Raoul is not where Erik can find him. Erik frowns beneath his mask, and wonders if perhaps he missed him in the bed when he passed it. He does not recall the sheets being disturbed in the least. Further along the bank he finds the young man in the study, asleep over an unmarked book with an arm propped under his cheek and his lean body slumped over the table. It is not so late in the day. Perhaps last night Raoul did not sleep. Erik was out until the break of dawn.

He approaches quietly, looking down at the boy and wondering if it is necessary to wake him just yet. It is not at all a bore for Erik, watching Raoul sleep. It was his favorite pastime in the beginning, and remains. His eyes close so softly, lashes splayed against his cheek like pale feathers, lips set perfectly beneath the straight length of his nose. Erik feels the start of a smile fall, and hovers the tips of his fingers above Raoul's disheveled hair. Without the sun it has darkened, a redder, light brown. Erik hesitates to wake him, there are so few moments as this one, but time is short for them both. Erik does not touch him, but sets the box down on the table.

The sound and tremor stirs Raoul, and he slowly comes to sit up, drawing in a deep yawn and arching his back. He glances up at Erik, and runs his hands over both sides of his face to free the sleep from his expression.

"I didn't hear you come in," he murmurs, and Erik pushes the messy locks of hair strewn across his brow. "Where have you been?"

"Out," he replies, and Raoul is staring up at him with clouded eyes, doubtful and bewildered. Erik is compelled to offer a very slight smile, barely visible, but present. It is the best he can do for Raoul. "Wandering dark streets," he lays a gloved hand on the smooth black box, and Raoul notices it as if for the first time. "I finally found what I wanted. Go on, open it."

Raoul's delicate brow creases into a frown, but he leans forward and flips the silver latches up against the polished wood. Erik watches him lift the lid, and his smile cannot help but widen as the boy stands, eagerly taking the violin from its black velvet bed, lips parted in stunned adoration. It is polished, new, and brilliant. He turns to Erik again, questioningly, and Erik folds his hands behind the small of his back. He gives a little nod.

"For you," he says. "For tonight."

"Tonight?" Raoul runs his fingers over the shining instrument, and comprehension settles in his slow smile, the light in his eyes. He flicks his up to Erik, and averts them again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "All the talent I have."

Erik is responsible for putting such words into Raoul's mouth, thoughts in his head and heart, although he no longer believes it. The boy has more than the dull lessons of the piano, and the skill of the violin. He has his own way with words, and needs only stretch out his legs and pursue the gift. Erik smoothes the wheat hair back again, running his fingers beneath the soft layers onto the warmth of his scalp. It is soft like velvet, even through his glove. Raoul leans into his touch, the casual pet of Erik's hand. Erik loves the feel of Raoul's hair between his fingers, under his palm. He loves the way Raoul bends to the touch, as if Erik's hand is all that is left in this world.

Raoul sets the violin carefully back into the case, and when he turns to Erik the smile is gone. Erik removes his hand.

"Your plans," Raoul says, quiet, and accepting. Not pleased, not bitter, but accepting. Erik likes that. The boy has become a man in this last year, more and more everyday. He still has the youthful face, eyes that do not always understand but want with a desperation Erik can feel when he touches him. His voice is steady, low. "You're going to keep them, aren't you?"

He can lie. He is good at it, with a lifetime of practice and experience, but in this he will not have to carry such a burden. "I intend to leave this place behind me. It is all arranged," Raoul's head dips, and he draws in a long breath. Erik turns his eyes to the ceilings. "By the end of this night I will be gone. Every passage I will leave open," Erik also keeps his eyes averted, but Raoul stares at him, surprised. "Each is always one direct route to a location in the Opera House. You will find your way without me."

"So you're releasing me, after all," Raoul remarks. "After a year, you have released me." A quiet smile, sad. "You've changed."

_Why can you not change?_

Nothing, nothing at all in anyway or form, has changed. Erik hates it.

In that night they play together, pieces Erik has not allowed to surface in years. He pounds away at his organ, each note booming frightful echoes of poetry, wordless ballads of Heaven and Hell, of love and hate. The Phantom has not felt his music penetrate so deep, not even in the blackest or most indescribable moments of his life. His eyes are closed, tightly, brows drawn and dark hair spilling over his ivory mask. The sound tremors into his fingers and up his arms, quickening his heart to a mad, raging race of blood.

The gentle drawn-out sound of Raoul's violin brings him back to circle, a soft, melancholy whine that twists and turns in time with the intensity of his music.

Together they shake the walls of the world that binds them, and hard emotion bears against Erik's hollow throat, rising, rising, rising. Music has always been the one thing in his existence to rip this kind of pain and pleasure and ecstasy and agony from his body. His fingers flatten at once on the keys, and his notes abruptly stop. Vanishing notes fade into the air.

Raoul follows after, the sharp sweet sounds shrieking as they die upon the strings.

There is only silence now. Silence, and their breath struggling to keep inside their lungs. Erik has not opened his eyes. He fears the hot tears behind the shields of his lids, that Raoul will see, that he will break. Raoul, breathless and timid, lowers his instrument to his side.

"We aren't finished," he whispers.

Erik looks up. Raoul deserves to see his face. The boy has earned as much. Erik turns to him, steady, constant. He only shakes his head, once. "No, we are not," he says. "There is only one way for this to end."


	38. 38

**38**

The nights do not bring on sleep, even when Erik's body is its weariest of all. He should have left hours ago, long after finishing with Raoul, and yet he remains resting here beside him, in quiet darkness. It was not awkward as the first time was; fumbling hands, unspoken protests and crushing discomfort written across the Vicomte's face. No, Erik was gentler with him than before, with his hands, with his mouth, taking his time and considering the one beneath him before rushing into release.

Raoul sleeps heavily beside him now, as they always lie, with the soft skin of Raoul's back to Erik's front, grazing and velvet comfort. Erik might have smiled another day. He wore the poor thing out. He should smile, but he should have left hours ago, and still he remains. Naked, arms curled around Raoul with his head bent and his cheek pressed into the nape of the younger man's neck. He is crying, and no one and nothing can hear the deep sobs, silent and only coming as dry gasps from a scoured throat.

Erik does not disturb Raoul, but he cries his soul out onto the other man.

This was not meant to last. Such things as these, glimpses of untainted felicity, colors he never noticed before, the feel of another soul wanting him for all he his, love. These are things he was born to always want and never have, and with each sob that wracks and shudders along the length of his body it becomes more and more real. He cries into Raoul, moans, but it is so quiet it will never wake the boy from sleep. What will he think if he sees the Phantom now?

He releases Raoul's body, and he stirs, shivers, but does not wake. Erik reaches for his trousers, and steps tentatively out of the bed, pulling them over shaking legs. Fine black material, contrasting his white undershirt that he pulls over his head to combat the draft of the night. Without his warmth in the sheets Raoul whimpers, and pulls the blankets higher over his naked skin. Erik does not look back to the bed. He is leaving now, as he said he would.

He wanders his chambers for the thousandth time, narrow hallways, further descent into this place as it seems he ever has. At the end he comes to the black wooden door, heavy and made of his own hands. It swings slowly open.

Unveiled is the mirror, wide and cold and lifeless as the night, even as he appears before it and becomes part of it. Even to his own eyes he is pale, ashen, and seemingly thinner than he has been in a long while. A final meeting between them, as he slides a bare palm over the distortion of his reflection. Another hand, both, and it still is there, staring back at him. Always staring, this misshapen flesh, only half of his face. So small, so insignificant and unaffecting, and yet it rules entirely and indiscriminately over his fate. It decides where he will go, and what he will be, it devours his mastery and his majesty. He hates it, and such hate brings him to the point of a tearing pain within himself that forces tears from his eyes.

His teeth clench, lips dry and trembling around them, tracks of tears and saliva shining in the half light.

Erik remembers, as always in despair, being a boy and facing the hideousness of his image for the first time, knowing nothing of it, only that it was not part of the world he knew to be right, and that it had to be destroyed. And yet as he smashed at the mirror he knew then, deep down, that it was himself that he was destroying. That although the thing staring back that he could not seem to destroy, it was what he would despise for the rest of his days, and fear, and it would never go away. As it will not leave him now.

He smashes, fists crushing through and splitting, first one crack, then entire craters of fine obliterated glass. There is nothing he can ever or will ever control but this.

_Why can you not change!_

The sound comes back, returning into his senses loud and blaring, and pain, crashing earsplitting shrieks among the flying shards. His white sleeves splatter and stain with blood, hot, thick with odor and heavy as it slides down the remaining mirror. Old scars reopen. Erik screams, wordless, deep, guttural, and with one last slam into the broken mirror he lowers down onto the floor. His body shudders as it falls to his knees, and he sobs, loud and horrible and wrenching. His own blood runs from the deep slices in his forearms, into his mouth, over his tongue and mingling with the tears in his eyes.

Perhaps it will not be long now. His sobs slow into sorrowful, heavy whimpers, moans of a name over and over, pain dulls but he did not feel it to begin with. Erik inhales shallowly, and closes his eyes, breathing to calm himself. Shaking, trembling, he pulls himself to his feet and journeys back to where Raoul sleeps. On his way out, feeling weaker with every step, he opens the doors of his prison for the boy to make his exit.

Erik returns to find him still asleep, and he has changed positions now. Raoul is wrapped in the sheets, dreaming perhaps, something wonderful and far away from where he is now, though his arm is reaching toward a body no longer beside his.

Erik ignores the pain, and the blood that still runs, the draining of his life force, and comes to rest quietly beside him. He does not wish to disturb his dreams, not even to part with him properly. Raoul will find his freedom come morning, the only fitting gift Erik may ever give another human being.

Perhaps he will leave Paris after all.


	39. 39

**Note**: Well, it had to end sometime! I really don't want to give anything away, for now or the future, so I'll just shut up for now. It has been an absolute pleasure to write this for you all, all 39 frippin chapters of it, and thank you SO much for being patient, and awesome, constructive readers. Thanks for letting me have fun with this. :)

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**39**

The world comes slowly upon Raoul again, a sleepy rise back into the comfort of his dreary, surrounding dark. By this time he knows that he should be alone, but there is still presence beside him. He reaches up and rubs his eyes, breathing in and expanding his ribcage enough to lean back and brush against another body. He lingers in hesitation a moment longer, and when he is certain that he is not dreaming, and that Erik has not reeled from him, Raoul gently pushes himself into the other mans space. The back of his head touches what feels like the back of Erik's. Interesting. Erik does not usually change his positions when he sleeps.

Raoul makes no move to turn around. He can only surmise that Erik prefers it this way at the moment. It means something, that Erik has stayed. For better or for worse, it means something. "You haven't left," he says, sleepily. There is nothing from the man beside him. He pauses, then, "Are you leaving?"

Cords of muscle from beneath the warmth of Erik's back move, ever so slightly. Perhaps he is on the very edge of sleep, verging on consciousness. Pale, inexplicable alarm builds somewhere in the distance of Raoul's perception. "Soon," Erik murmurs, quiet, so faint it is hardly a voice, a shell of words.

It is a reply, nonetheless. The alarms lull into nothing and Raoul leans again into Erik's back, arching into it and closing his eyes. "It must be morning," he says. "You told me you would be gone by morning."

Erik's shoulders moves, a slight vibration of the muscles under the skin. A whispered laugh, a shudder. It opens Raoul's eyes, and it begins to occur to him that the only warmth in this bed, on these sticky damp sheets, is the heat from his own body. He rolls his head leadenly on the pillow, and strains his eyes to try and see as far behind him as he can. There is only the back of Erik's head, his shoulders, dark hair spilling over the deformed side of his face. Another shudder, a soft laugh.

"Raoul," he barely utters an audible whisper of the name, one he seldom uses. From the corner of his eyes, Raoul can see the dark head slip slightly on the pillow, bent. Resigned. "It is too dark to be morning."

Raoul pulls himself up to sit, and candle light spills onto his naked body. His arm he holds before his face, and mixed with the glow of yellow are smears of dark red blood, to his elbow, down his side. It smells thick, and old, and panic rises in his throat as he scrambles around to Erik. His nails scrape against the others arm, tearing, and he turns him over. There is even more on Erik's side of the bed, black in the red sheets, splattered and stuck to his ribs and his stomach, down into his trousers. Raoul cannot tell how much he has lost, but Erik is only so awake. He moans, irritably, and tries to pull away from Raoul but the boy only persists.

"What did..." Words will not leave his throat, and Raoul can only gape and feebly attempt to form them. Erik tries to turn back on his side, and his eyes lazily roll back into their lids, tiredly. He is past the point of pain, far past that point, and now will barely lift his head off of the pillow. Even in a moment as this, when his life is leaving his body and he is half-naked and bleeding, helpless before the eyes of another, Erik is still arrogant enough to try and turn his back on Raoul's concern.

The panic fades, dissipates, shatters into raw anger. Red streaks across his vision and all Raoul wants is to jar Erik into consciousness, somehow bring his mind back before his body is too far gone. He forces the Phantom onto his back, shoulders in both his hands, and slaps the sides of his face, printed with the blood from his fingers. Erik can hardly seem to keep his eyes open. He looks more like he wants to just sleep the rest of his life away, but Raoul knows that if he sleeps he may not wake again. He finally backhands him hard enough on the twisted side of his face to snap him back into his senses.

Erik blinks hard, rapidly, and stares at Raoul inscrutably. It is as if he can hardly recognize the younger man.

"What did you..." Raoul trails off when Erik tries to shove him off, and he catches one of the arms in a shaking hand. Imbedded within the butchered flesh are shards of glass, some the size of Raoul's thumb, others small enough to only catch the faint light. "You broke a mirror," Raoul murmurs, stupidly, and with a frightening and unexpected strength Erik shoves Raoul, hard, off of him, cries out at once in the agony of misusing his injured forearms. They are clotting with dried blood, and he moans as the pain returns full force. Raoul watches as he plucks a few of the larger shards from his flesh, and feebly lets them fall about him. Raoul fears it is already too late.

"Boy," Erik spits, nothing of the gentleman he was the previous evening, no hints of kindness or attachment in the strained lines of his face. Only agony, and animosity. He curls within himself, with his sticky red hands over his drawn features, wet with spit and tears. He hides to die. "Do not ruin this."

"You will die!" Raoul hollers, and his hoarse voice breaks in the middle. He cannot understand it, this sudden fit of madness. Erik has not betrayed such turmoil in so long, almost a year, and yet now, as he feebly rips up pieces of sheet to bandage the other man's open wounds, he can only bellow loud, choking, irrational, sorrowful sobs and obscenities. He says things that Raoul cannot make sense of, as nothing about this makes sense. Erik is deteriorating before his eyes, but as he becomes more lucid he becomes more aware of himself.

He viciously snatches his arms back from Raoul, ribbons of severed flesh and gore, and snarls something horrible at him before shakily moving out of the swan bed. Relief washes over Raoul, at least he can walk, but as Erik stumbles past the curtains and out of the bedroom Raoul realizes, chillingly, that Erik does not wish to live any longer. The boy hastily scrambles into his trousers, and follows. Erik has fallen to his knees, and his head hangs between his shuddering, sunken shoulders. He is beside the bank, so close to the lake, but Raoul's fear does not stop him from coming to crouch at Erik's side.

"You have ruined this," Erik breathes, low and demonic. His words do not come entirely coherent. He has lost a lot of blood, and new pain grates at raw nerves. His face is something Raoul can hardly recognize, streaked and printed with blood, white, shadowed beneath sunken eyes. "Denied me – all I wanted, only ever-" his voice becomes a shout and cuts off. He has lost his balance, and Raoul catches him, knees grinding hard into the rock, but he holds onto Erik nonetheless.

"That's not true!" he protests, shouts back words that rattle in his dry throat. He does not understand, he wants to understand, but Erik will not tell him. To Erik he has given what he has given to no other, for this man, this monster in Hell he has given all his pity, suffered pain and humiliation for his comfort, to make him stay. All and willingly. "You know it isn't, there-" Heat prickles up to his face, and his eyes glaze with glassy hot tears. Age old shame, chagrin. "There's nothing I-"

"Naive, ignorant boy," he cradles his forearms to his white shirt, and keeps his head hung, so Raoul can hardly hear what he is saying. "I gave you all I can, and that is your freedom- you have taken that chance from me, denied me all I could ever give you," Erik tries to stand now, and fails, but manages to keep in Raoul's trembling grip. "Fool," he snaps. "Now we are both condemned here."

"No," Raoul shakes his head, hard, and keeps Erik's heaving frame to his own, keeping his arms to his chest and pressing his cheek into the top of Erik's dark head. "You know that is not true, don't say it, just- you can still leave this place, like you said you would!"

"Get off of me," Erik writhes, jerks forward. Raoul lets him go, and watches as the Phantom shakily pulls himself to his feet, minding his off-set footing.

"Just leave," Raoul implores of him, hoping sense can penetrate this fit of madness. "If you don't leave you will always be here, and you will never leave Paris," his voice begins to crack again, but rises in a desperate, scratchy shout. He grips Erik's shoulders, and the older man stares at him, unreadable if not irrational. "You'll always live in this horrible place, this hole in the ground and _nothing will ever change_!"

"Nothing changes!" Erik screams back, so deep and reverberating and horrible that Raoul almost recoils, expecting a blow to the head, but there are only words. "Nothing in this world may change, boy, nothing! I cannot change!"

"But you can!" Raoul hisses back. "You said so yourself, get out of here, change, find liberation- for us both, in the world, side by side-"

"There is nothing in the world for us, there is no power for us!" Erik turns his back on the boy, and walks, raggedly away from him. "No more than we have here! No power to change, no power to see things, no power but over ourselves and that is all the reason we go mad!"

Raoul stands there, staring, helpless by the bank. He shakes his head, and his expression and resolve break simultaneously. "It doesn't matter," he mutters, and Erik stops, but does not turn to look at him. "I have..." Words fail him. They always fail him, and Erik steps to him in quiet regard, breathing hard and clenching his teeth against the pain. "There is something here, it keeps me here. I can't break it, it's like a chain I can't even see anymore, but it keeps me here with you. I feel something. For you, I don't know what it is, but it's strong... and I know that I can't watch you rot here," Raoul angrily swipes at childish tears. "I can't."

Erik stares at him, chin dipped, eyes laced with red and teeth bared with every scrap of effort it takes to keep him on his feet. Raoul cannot know what he is thinking, or if he is even moved in the least, but he wishes he could just stop his own tears. He wishes, for once, that he could be strong. Erik speaks, slow, and pointedly, as if explaining something to a child. "I have opened every door for you," he says, quietly. "If you cannot watch me rot in this Hell then do not any longer. I wanted to make it easier for you, but you denied me even that. Now go, to the exit." His chin ducks further, eyes rolling up to combat menacing, lowered brows. "Or we will both die here."

Raoul shakes his head, mouth a thin, tremoring line. He holds his ground, and his reply is deep in this throat. "No."

"Now is not the time to finally start behaving like a man," Erik warns, a thin growl. Raoul only stands before him, watching, waiting, afraid and alone. Erik's face twists again in rage, and he throws a bloodied arm off to the side, revealing the open passage opposite the steps to the organ. "Leave now, or we _will both die here_!"

"No!"

"Leave now!" Erik snarls, and Raoul hardly even feels the other man seize him with all of his remaining strength, and he almost loses his footing as he is half-dragged up the rock and over the rise beside the organ. "Let me burn in my Hell, get out and leave me now!"

Raoul grunts in pain as one of his legs falls beneath him, and his bare feet scrape the rocky cavern floor. He resists Erik, but Erik will not be resisted, and drags him even faster, forcefully. The exit appears to be a vault, already open, and Erik rips it open even wider with one of his weakened arms. He throws Raoul on the floor just before the opening, and the boy stumbles into it.

"Everything, everything has come to its end, it is over!" Erik has never screamed like this before, howled, and his voice has turned from melodious to demonic and enraged with unbelievable sorrow. "Get out of here!"

Raoul hesitates, but turns to look down the long passageway, and for the first time since finding Erik half conscious and bleeding upon the sheets he realizes that he is free. Erik has set him free, and if he does not go now, something horrible will happen. It has happened, and he will never have another chance to escape this place again. He stares at Erik, brokenly, and does not recognize the gleam in the mans eyes, rimmed with a terrible purple and caging tears. He does not remember it this way, and with another hard shove from Erik's bloodied arms he turns, and tears into a clumsy run down the passageway. He knows he cannot look back, or he will never truly leave this time or this place.

Behind him Erik howls again, as he slams the vault door closed. It shakes around him. "It has ended!"

It is the last thing Raoul hears, but Erik's agony does not stop there. He screams, and screams, a low, baleful noise seeming to come from the very pit of his insides as he moves from exit to exit and shuts them all off with sorrowful ferocity. Erik locks them one by one, iron latches and steel chains, and when he finishes he comes to lean exhausted and spent beside his organ.

Slowly, the sobbing, the screaming begins to fade into a low moan of broken spirit, and Erik breathlessly picks his heavy black cloak from where it lies, folded on the seat. Closing his eyes, he drags the bandage across his cheeks and rids the tears, wrapping himself up in the cloak, and falling with tattered grace against the organ. He slides down the side, until he is seated beside it, entirely covered by the fine black material. After a long while the ragged, drawn-in rhythm of his breathing slows, and the Phantom becomes still and quiet, folded inside the comfort of darkness. Here, at last, he may bleed without shame.

Raoul does escape. He crawls through the long passageway, as Erik had instructed, knowing it will lead him back. He goes for hours in darkness, unsure of where he even is, only knowing to keep heading on the same path. At the very end of the way he runs into a circle of pale silver light, collecting at the bottom of a wet tunnel. Water drips periodically beside a set of rusted bars. The bars are in the stead of more darkness, and above them spills out what feels like only the sun does.

Raoul has not felt light as this in almost a year. He cannot remember it, and yearns to remember what it is to feel such warmth, so he climbs up, up, up until he is able to push at the thick bars of the grating and find the sun.

An yet, even as Raoul crawls out from the gutter, spit up from the pits of the underground, the sun does not welcome as he dreamed it would. Around him the people gasp, and speculate, and someone calls for help, but the sun remains motionless in the sky above him. It bears down hard, blaring, harsh, and white. Raoul has finally found the sun, and it burns hot along the tainted planes of his skin.

fin


End file.
